


Ashes

by gogirl212



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Origin Story, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Rescue, Savoy Story, Undercover Missions
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-30
Updated: 2018-12-21
Packaged: 2019-07-20 22:55:50
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 21,410
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16147277
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gogirl212/pseuds/gogirl212
Summary: A mission gone bad, a missing man, and a traitor deep in the ranks of the agency - just a typical day for The Musketeers, INTERPOL's elite special operations force.  My first modern AU!





	1. Part One

**Author's Note:**

> It's my worst nightmare come true - I have two fics going at the same time! I told this one to just wait, but it refused. It started as a response to the August Fetes competition where there's smoke there's fire - and then it grew into a blaze of its own. It's my first modern AU, my first Savoy story and my first take on an origins-type story. I know even less about modern international policing than I do 1630s Musketeers so my apologies for the errors. My gratitude to Issai for beta-reading and for cheerleading. She keeps me writing :)
> 
> I promise I have not forgotten An Insurrection of Angels and I'll post more of that soon.

\-- Prologue--  
He had to keep moving. He was too hot for the heavy trench coat he had buttoned over his clothes, but he pulled the belt tight again anyway. Something about the pressure from the belt snug around his waist gave him the illusion that he was not slowly bleeding out beneath the makeshift bandages holding his left side together. The coat was practical too as it hid his blood-soaked clothing as he pushed his way through the crowded city center. It was dusk, and people were on their way home or out with friends. The city was too full of other things to give much notice to the man weaving drunkenly against the flow of bodies heading toward the bus stops and car parks.

Someone jostled him as he rounded the next corner and he cried out in pain, staggering backward to lean awkwardly against the side of a building. The woman who had run into him -- blonde, petite, dressed like she worked at one of the high-end boutiques that catered to rich tourists -- looked as if she was about to apologize, but her face changed as she took him in. He was panting and bathed in sweat, his eyes probably blown wide from the adrenaline and morphine he’d shot himself up with from the emergency kit in the glove box. She backed away, melting into the crowd and leaving the crazy guy in the trench coat to fend for himself.

He didn’t care. He needed a minute to catch his breath. The dull ache from his side was starting to burn and his vision was watery. The drugs were wearing off. They were supposed to last long enough to get you out of a firefight and into the hands of an evac team, not keep you on your feet for over an hour trying to find the one safe house you had time to locate before you had to toss your phone into the back of cab while pretending to hold the door open for an elderly couple. He’d dumped everything on the phone first - there was an app for that - but if he was being tracked, that cab had hopefully led his pursuers, whoever the hell they were, on a long enough chase that he could make the safe house. 

He blinked up at the street sign on the side of the building. The words refused to stay in focus, but it had to be right. The church bells were ringing, he was close by, he knew it. He pushed himself off the wall and stumbled down the narrow street, less crowded but dotted with trash cans and paved with cobblestone. He wobbled on the uneven surface, each step causing a throbbing ache in his side. He checked numbers . . . 107 . . 109 . . 111. . and there, 113. It was that one. He crammed himself into the doorway, forehead leaning on the metal door as he keyed in a passcode. The door panel blinked red. He had the number wrong. No. No. That couldn’t be. He’d memorized it, the code, the street, the map view - his mind was like that, nearly photographic. He typed the code again, more carefully, mindful of the clumsiness in his normally adept fingers. The light on the keypad blinked green and he heard the satisfying click of the door unlocking. He saw the slick of his own blood on the keypad as he took his hand away and pushed his way into the door. 

He pressed the steel door closed, heard the lock shift into place. He keyed the secondary entry pad, resetting the alarm and identifying him as an INTERPOL agent. His code on the interior door would flag in the system and alert INTERPOL to which agent had entered the safe house. Only he hadn’t used his own code because he had no idea if he was being targeted. If anyone was looking for him, he would show up in a database search as someone else and anyone running a program to flag his access would miss it. It would take someone recognizing the code manually to figure it out. 

His knees buckled and he slid down the door, sitting heavily on the flagstones of the entryway. He pulled open the trench coat. He was drenched in blood. There would be a med kit in the house, but not in the hallway where he was currently slumped on the floor and incapable of getting up. He needed help. But who was left that he could trust? 

Hands shaking, he managed to fish his burner phone out of his pocket. It was old-school, a flip phone and he’d have to actually remember a phone number to be able to use it. He flicked it open and stared at the keys. His memory was excellent but right now it was a soup of too many things trying to coalesce. He got like that when he took drugs, and apparently when he suffered from extreme blood loss too. He set the phone on his thigh and hoped a number would come to him. 

His glock was tucked into the waistband of his pants and he carefully pulled it out, trying not to stretch the shredded muscles on his left side. He switched off the safety and placed it on the floor beside him, his right hand on the grip. It was reassuring to have the gun in his hand. Grounding. He had logged hundreds of hours with it in the field and on the range. He could hear the echo of gunfire inside the throbbing of his head. Not just his shots, but the report of two others beating a staccato rhythm somehow in sync with his own. He fumbled for the phone and clumsily dialed the one number he could remember. He felt a burning pain sear his side and he moaned. Yeah, the morphine had definitely worn off. The pain was excruciating and he all but forgot the cell phone as it dropped from his hand. He had to get up. Had to stop the bleeding. He pressed his hand into the wound and moaned again. He was trying to stand when a shadow stepped into the doorway from the main room.

He froze as fear hit him like ice water. For all of his clever tricks, his evasion skills, his desperate trek across the city, they had been waiting for him all along. With his last remaining strength, he raised the glock, trying and failing to keep his hand steady enough to make his shot. The figure didn’t stop, didn’t say anything, just moved slowly into the dark hallway, blotting out the light from the doorway behind him. He tried to squeeze the trigger but his fingers refused to cooperate. The gun slipped from his hand, clattering on the floor. The man came closer, spreading his arms wide until they became wings and the last conscious thought he had was of a great black raven sweeping him into the blackness of oblivion.

\--PART ONE--

“Who is it?”

“Nothin’,” Porthos said, tapping his phone closed, “Just heavy breathing and some moaning.”

“Sounds like Aramis butt-dialed you again,” Athos offered as he flicked the turn signal on and shifted lanes. Their exit was coming up and they’d be back home in about another 15 minutes. Well not home exactly, but back to The Garrison, the command bunker for their elite operations INTERPOL unit. They spent enough time there it might as well be home.

“Yeah, but it wasn’t his number,” Porthos said, peering at the phone, “I don’t know this number.”

“Ok so someone else butt-dialed you,” Athos hated it when Porthos went down these rabbit holes. Sometimes things just happened. 

“On my encrypted line?” Porthos tapped at the phone while he talked to Athos, “Only eight people have this number and seven of them are forward-thinking enough to take their phone out of their pockets when they’re having sex.”

“So wrong number?” Athos offered, taking the exit that took them off the main highway and into the French countryside.

“What are the odds of that though?’ Porthos frowned, “That some random guy from . . . um . . . Venezuela randomly butt dials me while he’s getting it on with some babe in a bikini in the bulkhead of his yacht?”

“You’ve given this a lot of thought,” Athos said dryly.

“Well all I’ve had for company is you the last eight days so yeah, I got a lot to think about,” Porthos complained, but Athos could hear the smile in his voice. 

“You could always ask to be reassigned if I don’t talk enough for you,” Athos’s tone was flat, but this was a longstanding joke between the three of them. Athos’s stoicism was as legendary as Aramis’s chattering and Porthos was the poor fool who had to suffer through both of them. “I hear Rochefort's group is looking for a fourth.”

Porthos gave a derisive snort. “Rochefort? That pig, he can’t keep any team for longer than three months.”

“Well we haven’t had a fourth for a lot longer than that,” Athos pointed out.

“Yeah, well that’s different,” Porthos said, as he put his phone away, “We started as a trio. Not our fault that we already had a thing going when Treville mandated four-man teams.”  
“Four-person teams,” Athos corrected, “Plus back-ups.”

“Whatever kind of person it is, it’s one too many people for the three of us,” Porthos countered. He was silent a minute and then added, “Do you think we need a fourth?” Athos sighed. He asked himself this question almost daily and every time his answer seemed to change.

“I see the benefits. We have some skills deficits that a fourth could make up for. It would improve tactical operations and allow a stronger command role when running missions with interchangeable --”

“Athos, cut it out,” Porthos interrupted, “I don’t wanna hear tactics and administrative crap coming from you. I’m asking you, my lieutenant, my friend, my - hell, we are practically brothers - do we need a fourth?”

Athos sighed. Practically brothers. He didn’t think he could be closer to blood brothers than he was to Aramis and Porthos. They were family in every sense of the word. A deeper bond than his family, or at least what was left of them. But did they need a fourth?

“Well, Treville thinks we do,” Athos said reasonably, “So that means whatever I think matters less than we at least try to find one.”

“And if we never do?” Porthos asked.

“I don’t think I’ll mind,” Athos said warmly. Far too warmly for Porthos to not understand the underlying message. They finished the remainder of the journey in companionable silence, although Athos knew Porthos was probably still pondering all the unspoken questions constantly rattling around in his head.

As they pulled into the drive, The Garrison seemed busier than it should have been for a Wednesday night. Although with an international agency, time was completely relative. A crisis didn’t wait for morning in France, it could unfold at any time. The Garrison was not just a command post, it was a bunkhouse, an arsenal, a transport center, and a supply depot. Everything they needed at a moment’s notice, including an infirmary, a mess hall and a place to crash between missions.

Reaching the security checkpoint, Athos rolled down the window of the black, government issue SUV. He was surprised to find Jacques on duty as he usually worked the day shift.  
“Good evening, Sirs,” his tone was formal, not the usual greeting from the young soldier, “I’m sorry but I’ll need to see your identification, Lieutenant.”

“Of course,” Athos said, slipping his ID folder from his back pocket. He reached across the front seat to take Porthos’s and he handed them both to Jacques. The soldier didn’t just look at them, he took the time to slip them through the scanner and check them against the records that came up. Athos glanced over to Porthos, a question in his eyes. Porthos gave a shrug. They both pulled out their phones while they waited for Jaques, a soldier they had known for well over a year, to check their identification to make sure they were themselves. Something was going on.  
Athos reviewed his messages, nothing from the Garrison.

“Did you get pinged?” Porthos asked.

“No. You?” 

“Nope. Nothin’,” Porthos took a deep breath, Athos could almost hear the cogs start turning in the man’s brain. They were about to go down another rabbit hole. Porthos tapped rapidly at his phone. Athos knew he was texting Aramis.

“Here you go, all checks out,” Jacques interrupted Athos’s thoughts to hand him back their IDs.”

“Did you think we weren’t us?” Athos said as he passed Porthos his ID booklet.

“No . . I mean, of course not, Sir,” Jacques was clearly flustered and Athos didn’t mean to be giving the kid a hard time. He liked him, they all did. He often worked motor pool and they’d talk cars and engines. Or take him to the shooting range because wow, he was terrible but Aramis never shied away from a good project.

“What’s going on?” Athos asked.

“I don’t know, Sir. I was just ordered to remain at my post until relieved. I don’t think it’s a security exercise, I think it’s a real threat,” Jacques said that last conspiratorially as if he wasn’t supposed to tell. Athos and Porthos exchanged a glance. If The Garrison was under threat there would be a Code Red All Call issued and neither of them had received that.  
“Did they do a full field recall?” Porthos asked from the passenger seat.

“I don’t know, Sir,” Jacques replied, “But it’s been busy, Sir, I can tell you that. Two choppers just came in a few minutes ago and they are clearing the helipad for two more. Someone said a team’s been compromised.”

Compromised. It was a euphemism for captured or killed. Athos felt his chest tighten.

“Ok Jacques, thanks. Nice job” Athos added, attempting to show the young soldier he had not been offended by being asked for ID. He must have done alright as Jacques offered him a formal salute as Athos put the car in gear. The Garrison wasn’t military exactly but there were enough former soldiers and special ops crews that a salute still meant something here. Athos returned the gesture and then pulled the car through the gate.

“If it’s Code Red, then why didn’t we get pinged to come back?” Porthos immediately asked.

“Maybe because we’d already checked in as on our way?” Athos answered, “I mean the Captain knows we are en route.”

“But doesn’t a ping like that go to everyone?” Porthos wondered.

“Maybe because it isn’t a Code Red?” Athos answered, finding that calm center he needed to withstand what was probably going to be a barrage of questions that Athos could not answer. He knew it was Porthos’s way of puzzling things out, but being asked speculative questions that he could not possibly have the answer to drove Athos crazy. Athos preferred to quietly connect the dots in his own mind, taking in bits of information and slipping them into place until a picture emerged. Once he found the picture, he could share it, act on it, add to it but for him, it was a solitary and quiet process. Porthos made him nuts.

Both of their phones chimed simultaneously. Athos snagged his out of his cup holder and tapped the fingerprint access on the back. The message scrolled up on the lock screen - they were to report immediately to Captain Treville.

“Treville?” Porthos asked, confirming they had gotten the same message. Athos nodded. “What the hell is going on that we don’t get recalled but we get flagged the minute we set foot in The Garrison?”

“I don’t know,” Athos answered, wondering the same thing.

“What teams are out?” Porthos asked.

“I don’t know,” Athos said. Beside him, Porthos was glued to his phone, probably searching the duty roster. It would at least tell them who was at The Garrison.

“Who do you think we lost?” the question was loaded.

“I don’t know,” Athos tightened his grip on the wheel as he directed the car toward motor pool parking. Porthos’s questions might be annoying, but he was right. Something was off about this whole thing. He put the car in park and switched it off.

“Do you think Aramis -”

“Is probably fine,” Athos said.

“But did he get called back?”

“Maybe he was already here.” 

Porthos shook his head, “He’d of texted us if he was here and we weren’t. Why didn’t he?”

“I don’t know, maybe he’s still in the field?” Athos suggested, “Did you text him?”

“Yeah,” Porthos tapped at his phone some more, “Says it was sent, but not delivered.”

“So he’s busy,” Athos reasoned, “If he’s in the field he can’t answer. If he’s in the situation room here he can’t answer either.”

“He always answers,” Porthos tossed back, “Damn, the guy can be lying in the rain on a roof trying to line up a rifle shot and he calls me. Why not now?”

“I don’t know,” Athos said quietly.

“Do you think he’s alright?” Porthos pressed.

“I don’t know,” Athos said, gut starting to churn.

“Why wouldn’t he call or text if —“ 

“I don’t know!” Athos banged his hands against the wheel, cutting off the end of Porthos’s question. He leaned back in the seat and raked his hand over his face, trying to calm down. He was the one who never lost his cool. Beside him Porthos looked smaller, his head hanging down as he peered at his phone looking for answers that Athos knew weren’t there.

“I’m sorry,” Athos said quietly, “I’m worried too.”

“I know,” Porthos said without a trace of hurt or malice. They knew each other well, too well sometimes, but this was their way and they were both grateful for it - the bickering went along with the brotherhood. 

They got out of the car and retrieved their personal weapons, readjusting their holsters and putting their ID back in their pockets. They’d probably be asked to show it again at the desk. Porthos went around back and popped the trunk and started to pull their bags.

“What are you doing?” Athos came around the back and leaned casually on the bumper, clearly in Porthos’s way. Porthos straightened up and gave the Lieutenant a curious look.  
“We gotta log our gear,” he said but it sounded more like a question.

“Yeah, we do,” Athos said with a shrug, “But our orders are to report immediately to Treville.”

“Yeah, but the gear... “ Porthos trailed off at Athos’s arched eyebrow.

“Can stay in this vehicle, in this secured facility, until we know what’s going on,” Athos gave Porthos a small but knowing smile as he cocked his head in a question. Protocol said the first thing they did was return weapons and gear to the quartermaster. They’d never deviated from this - even when it meant the quartermaster was in the infirmary with them stripping off pistols and ammo clips.

“Let’s go,” Porthos said, a dangerous edge to his voice. Athos and Porthos might get to the end of a puzzle in different ways, but they rarely disagreed about the outcome. Something was up, and they both knew in their gut it had to do with them - and therefore with Aramis. Stickler for the rules as he was, Athos was leaving them a backdoor exit in case they needed it.

The Garrison was bustling when they made their way through the front doors. The Octagonal shaped building had an open atrium with their main security desk at the front and a lounge area in the center. The building was three stories high with balcony corridors on the floors above that bordered the atrium dome. There were three more floors below ground. The Garrison was bigger than it looked. The normally peaceful lounge was full of people on laptops and cell phones. People were coming and going in the balcony corridors above them. There was no panic, but the tension was palpable. They checked in at the security desk and again were asked for ID.

“Thanks,” Bucky said as he handed them back their documents. The Sergeant had taken his nom de guerre from the Marvel movies and he did look a bit like the actor who played Captain America’s rogue best friend. “The captain’s in the bird’s nest. He said to send you up as soon as you got here.”

The bird’s nest was their nickname for the top floor command office that Treville worked out of. There was a command post in the bunker too in case The Garrison was ever under direct attack. So whatever was going on it didn’t pose an imminent threat to the facility. Athos and Porthos were silent as they took the elevator to the third floor.

Treville was on the phone when they arrived but he waved them into his office anyway. For all the tech they had, the Captain’s office was decidedly a throwback to another century. An antique farmer’s table served as a desk, littered with documents, folders and paper maps. There were files stacked on the floor and littering the top of a 17th-century credenza, the most ornate piece in the room. The rest of the pieces were rustic, culled from French country auctions and estate sales. Treville’s laptop sat buried in the papers on his desk, an anomaly along with the large screen monitor that hung on the wall behind him. He had to call in his assistant to help him every time he needed the big screen for a video conference, which was frequently.

Treville gestured for them to sit, but Athos and Porthos remained standing, unconsciously assuming an at ease stance that ex-military easily fell into. They waited as Treville finished his call.  
“Twenty-one confirmed two hours ago. So where is he?,” Treville barked into the phone, “I want to know how it happened.” Treville paused as the person on the other end of the phone said something, “Send the photos directly to me,” he listened again, “Well find him! He didn’t just get lucky and walk away from this, he’s involved. I want an update in 30 minutes.” Treville tapped off the phone and flung it onto his desk. He sighed and ran a hand through short greying hair, composing himself from the heated call before looking up at Athos and Porthos.

“There’s been a breach,” Treville didn’t mince words, “A SVOI mission was compromised. The entire team is dead.” 

Athos tried to process what he had just heard. SVOI - The Special Victims Operations Initiative - conversationally they pronounced it Savoy, was a cross-functional team with representatives from multiple agencies that were sent out for targeted missions related to sex trafficking and child pornography. All of them participated in SVOI missions and often more than one operation was in play. At any given moment any of them could be in any imaginable, or unimaginable, corner of the world. For men in the field, it could be dangerous, but the bulk of the team were back-office - computer support, logistics, tactical and surveillance. Even a big raid would not put everyone at play in the field. How could they all be dead?

“What Musketeers were on the team?” Porthos forced the question through his clenched jaw. Treville searched both their faces as if considering what he should say.

“Captain?” Athos breathed. It was almost a plea.

“We lost five men,” Treville said softly. “I’m sorry, but Aramis was one of them.” 

The Captain’s statement knocked the wind right out of Athos. For a moment he couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t feel. His limbs felt like jelly. He took a step to the side to fall clumsily into a chair. He knew this choking feeling, he knew it too well. He thought after what had happened to his family he would be immune to pain like this. He couldn’t ever feel grief that deep ever again. Yet two years with these men, two years with Aramis and his absolutely irritating chatter, his frat boy behavior, his disregard for orders and command, his collection of sexual conquests coming and going at all hours, his cold-blooded ability to drop a bullet in a man’s head and then make fun of Porthos for yet again overdressing for a surveillance mission …. Athos fought to breath as all these memories pushed into his heart. Beside him, Porthos had shifted closer, a hand on his shoulder. Athos found the gesture reassuring, grounding and terrifying. He was in too deep with both of them. He wasn’t supposed to feel like this again. Porthos was saying something to Treville, Athos forced himself to listen as Porthos asked for the information that he himself should have as Aramis’s unit commander.

“How? When?” Porthos choked out the words.

“Six hours ago. Their location was compromised. Multiple explosions and gunfire. No survivors,” Treville’s voice was clipped, efficient, but Athos could hear the grief in it. Aramis had been among the first recruits to The Musketeers, INTERPOL’s elite special ops team. Treville had named the unit Musketeers as a nod to their Paris location and the spirit of the team that Treville hoped to build when the team was formed. Athos, Porthos and Aramis had been cheeky in naming themselves after the heroes of the novel, but they knew it had meant a lot to Treville as a sign that they embraced the values of loyalty, bravery and skill that the Captain strove for. Treville did not play favorites, but this team was his first and Aramis’s death would hit him as deeply as it did Athos and Porthos.

“Where were they?” Porthos’s voice held a tremor but the tone was cold as ice.

“Turin,” Treville said, fidgeting at one of the maps on his desk, “They were just setting up. No one even in the field.”

“What was the mission?” Porthos continued his questions. It was his way, Athos knew, but right now he wished everyone would just shut up because as the first wave of grief and shock began to recede, Athos had the feeling that something wasn’t adding up. He needed to think with a brain that refused to do anything other than bringing up memories of the last time he challenged Aramis to a game of darts over a pint in one of their favorite pubs. Aramis was laughing as he pulled his cluster of red darts from the center of the target. . .

“Sex-trafficking ring connected to a high-ranking official in the Italian Government,” Treville sighed. He sounded weary. He’d probably already had this conversation half a dozen times at least, “We had good intel on this. It was big, so a big team, but we had the situation contained. This should never have happened.”

“You’re damn right,” Athos could hear the dangerous edge in Porthos’s voice, “So who are we looking for?”

“We’re not sure,” Treville replied, “The crime scene is a mess. We had trouble identifying everyone, we’ll be processing it for hours more yet.”

“How do you know he was there?” Porthos challenged.

“Porthos, I know.” Treville said

“How?” it was nearly a growl. The comforting hand had left Athos’s shoulder as Porthos stepped closer to Treville. They faced off over the desk.

“We recovered personal effects,” Treville’s voice was as raw as Porthos’s, “His were there.”

“Let me see,” Porthos was not asking. Eyes still locked on Porthos, Treville pulled open the drawer of his desk and fished out a plastic evidence bag. He flung it on the desk between them. Porthos picked it up and despite the smears of blood on the inside of the bag Athos could see the familiar worn billfold embossed with a fleur-de-lis, a key to what he knew was a forest green old-school Jaguar, and a set of Tibetan prayer beads woven into a bracelet.

Porthos stared at the bag, jaw working but no words came out until he dropped the bag back on the desk as if it had burned him. “These could have been planted. He’d leave this behind if he was in the field. This is not proof,” Porthos challenged.

“First chopper back brought me 21 of those,” Treville said coldly, “No one was deployed yet. So when I tell you they are all lost I expect you to believe me.”

“This isn’t enough,” Porthos was getting angry, the volume rising, “I’m not going to believe it until the DNA confirms it.”

“I understand, son,” Treville’s distress was genuine as he tried to soothe the big man, “It’s hard for me to accept too. But over twenty men were killed, five from our squad, and as difficult as it is, our job now is to find out who did it.”

“Then why the hell are we still standing here?” Porthos demanded, “Why weren't we recalled as soon as it happened?”

“Because I wanted to be sure before I told you,” Treville’s voice was soft, kind, heartbreaking, “And I didn’t want you to find out from anyone besides me.” Treville shared their grief, Athos knew it, Porthos would realize it soon enough, “Losing a comrade - a brother,” Treville’s voice choked on the word, “is devastating. But when you’re not there, when you wonder what could have happened, how maybe you could have prevented it, well that just eats at you,” Treville was speaking from his heart, from his gut, and from what sounded like his own experience. “I didn’t want you to face this out in the field. I wanted you both here. Maybe that’s selfish on my part. But I’ve had enough loss for a lifetime today…” Treville’s voice trailed off. He cleared his throat. He’d said enough. His next words were strong and unapologetic. “You are on bereavement. One week. Take the time, get some rest.”

“No way!” Porthos roared, “No way we sitting this out, Captain. Not happening.”

“That’s non-negotiable,” Treville leaned in with his fists on the desk, not giving an inch to the angry man before him, “Your emotions are running too high, you are not going to think clearly and I don’t trust you to act rationally. We will catch the whoever did this. . .”

“And then I’ll kill him,” Porthos growled, cutting off the Captain.

“That’s exactly why you are not to be involved,” Treville snapped, “This is complicated, it involves the Italian government and an uninvited international force within their borders. I don’t need a loose cannon --”

“I don’t give a damn about your politics!” Porthos shouted, “I’m gonna to find the bastard who killed Aramis and four other Musketeers and I’m gonna shred him!” 

“You are not!” Treville shouted back, “You will stand down and let the rest of the team handle this.”

“Like hell we are!” Porthos was livid, “You have no damn right to box us out of this!”

“I have every right,” Treville spat, “I’m your commander. You need to listen and you need to trust me.”

“Like those five dead musketeers trusted you?” Porthos sneered, “I don’t think so.”

“Okay, now two weeks bereavement!” Treville came around the desk, “Open your mouth again and it’s a month on administrative leave.” 

Athos could see Porthos’s clenched fists, heard the raspy breathing as the big man fought to control himself. But it was just as likely that Porthos would haul off and hit the Captain as not. The rage and the grief were threaded together and unwinding them was not going to be possible yet. Porthos needed to hit something and Athos was almost inclined to let him. For Aramis’s sake and the sake of the other four . . . Athos paused as the missing piece clicked into place. He had a picture together, and it wasn’t pretty. He jumped up from the chair, sorrow falling away as he snapped into action.

“Porthos,” Athos was quickly by his friend’s side, hand on his shoulder pulling him slightly back from Treville, “The Captain is right. We’re too close to this.”

“What?” Disbelief and betrayal flashed in Porthos’s eyes as he switched his gaze from Treville to Athos.

“Captain, I’m sorry,” Athos stepped between the two men, “We’re devastated as you can imagine. This insubordination won’t happen again.” Behind him Porthos shifted closer, anger coming off him in a wave

“Athos, this is crap! You know it” Porthos raged and Athos spun around, placing a hand on the big man’s chest and pushing him back a step.

“Calm down,” Athos ordered, his voice calm and clear but his eyes begging Porthos to listen. Under normal circumstances, Porthos would have picked up on the silent communication but these circumstances were not normal.

“You’re just going to let him do this? Let him box us out of this? Aramis needs us. Aramis --”

“Aramis is dead!” Athos yelled, “He’s dead and your yelling about it isn’t going to bring him back. Now get it together!” Athos’s eyes bored into Porthos’s his hand pressed hard into the man’s sternum, fingers wrapping around his shirt and tugging. Finally, finally, he saw something in Porthos’s eyes that wasn’t pure rage. It was more like desperation and Athos’s grip changed from threatening to one of strength. Lean on me his eyes said and Porthos’s clenched jaw told Athos he would. Athos took a steadying breath and turned toward Treville who was watching the scene between the two of them.

“If there is nothing else?” Athos looked over his shoulder to the Captain, asking to be dismissed. Treville’s mouth was set in a determined line. His eyes flashed blue steel. He probably would put them on administrative leave if Porthos said another word. Athos knew it and knew he had to get the big man out of there.

“Two weeks bereavement,” Treville repeated, “Turn over whatever files you’ve been sent on this to Rochefort’s team. He’s taking the lead on the investigation.” Behind Athos, Porthos fidgeted but Athos just tightened his grip where he still had Porthos’s shirt. “Go somewhere. Work it out. But if I catch you within 100 miles of Turin I’ll have you both dismissed from this unit.”

“Understood,” Athos said tightly. The Captain gave a dip of his head. They were dismissed. Athos turned and forcibly bundled a protesting Porthos from the room. As soon as they were in the hallway Porthos started to speak but Athos was unrelenting, “Not here,” he hissed as they passed the desks of Treville’s administrative aids. They kept walking, bypassing the elevator and heading for the stairwell. They made it down one half flight to the first landing when Porthos spun around and slammed Athos into the wall.

“What the hell was that about!” Porthos gripped Athos by his jacket, nearly pulling him up off his feet.”

“We couldn’t risk administrative leave,” Athos’s voice was tight but low, “On bereavement, we keep our weapons and ID. We need that.”

Porthos stilled, hands still gripping Athos’s jacket but the tension released from his body. “We’re going after the bastard that did this.”

“Of course we are,” Athos said flatly, “Did you really think otherwise?”

“I guess I wasn’t thinking,” Porthos said, all the anger draining from his voice. “I can’t believe he’s gone,” Porthos let go of Athos and shook his head, tears brimming in his eyes. He sat heavily on the bottom step.

“Hey,” Athos said, and now it was his turn to be strong, to offer comfort where no one else could. He sat beside Porthos, “I don’t want to get your hope up, but I’m not so sure he is.”  
“What?” Porthos’s head snapped up, the desperate look returning, “Athos, I don’t need false comfort, I --”

“Stop. Think,” Athos said with a ring of command in his tone. Porthos was an emotional wreck, hell so was he, but they were better trained than this and Athos was convinced something about the situation was not adding up. “Put that big brain of yours to work. Treville said five Musketeers were dead. He always sends teams of two. Where is the sixth man? Who is it? That could be Aramis.”

“Or it could be the bastard that set them up,” Porthos countered, but at least he was thinking it out, “How do we know?”

“We don’t,” Athos said, “But until everyone is accounted for, I’m going to believe there is a chance. That call you got, moaning and heavy breathing - what if Aramis was injured?”

“I called back, no answer. What is he doing then?” Porthos was frustrated and falling down the rabbit hole, which right now was a good thing. Athos needed Porthos’s mind to focus.

“Running.” Athos said, “If he was in trouble, he’d call us first chance he felt safe enough to do so. But not on his regular phone, on a burner.” 

“If he’s running,” Porthos surmised, “He thinks its an inside job. That’s why the radio silence.”

“Treville thinks it’s an inside job too,” Athos said, “The call when we came in, he said 21 dead, not 22. That whoever survived didn’t just walk away - he thinks the Musketeers were betrayed.”  
“But if Aramis is the missing man, then you think he did this?” Porthos looked confused.

“No. I will never think that,” Athos said strongly, “But if it was an inside job, anything taken from the site is suspect, including 21 bags of personal effects. Aramis would have given those things to any Musketeer if he was deployed. He would have trusted them.

“We need to figure out who the missing Musketeer is,” Porthos said.

“Well we’re not going to be able to do that sitting in the stairwell,” Athos said, standing. 

“We need to pull the investigation records for Turin, the duty rosters, and the SVOI mission reports and get out of The Garrison. I give Treville no more than ten minutes before he figures out we gave up too easily and shuts down our computer access and puts us in lockdown on the base,” Athos offered Porthos a hand up, “Coming?”

“Hell yeah,” Porthos said, taking Athos’s hand and letting his friend pull him up to his feet. He held on a minute, shifting his grip to clasp Athos by the forearm, “Athos, we’re clutching at straws here. There’s no evidence, there’s just a whole lot of conjecture . . .” Porthos trailed off, unable to finish the thought.

“Where there is smoke, there is fire” Athos answered, confident, determined, and sure. “We’re gonna find him.” Athos gave Porthos a thump to the chest and the big man nodded. He might not have faith right now, but Porthos was willing to let Athos’s faith be enough for them both. They released each other and raced down the stairs to the second level where Musketeer Team 1 had their suite of offices. They’d have to work fast if they were going to bring their brother home.


	2. Part One - Continued

They had the back booth in The Wren, dark and murky except for the glow of their laptops painting their faces in ghostly ice blue light. It wouldn't surprise anyone to find them here. The off-the-beaten-track inn catered to locals only, and by now, the Musketeers of the Garrison were considered local. They stared at their screens, the whisky beside them ignored.

"I'm locked out of all of the SVOI records," Porthos grumbled, tapping at the screen.

"Not surprising," as Athos had suspected, it took about 10 minutes for Treville to revoke their access to all mission records. They still had system access to logistics and operations, things like reserving time on the firing range or checking out a company vehicle were apparently still allowed on bereavement leave.

"Here," he handed Porthos a portable drive from the gear bag on the bench beside him, "That's the mission archive going back 3 years. Everything with an inactive status," Porthos's brow shot wrinkled in disbelief, "What? I have automated monthly archiving. I like to be prepared."

"You are one paranoid bastard, Athos," Porthos laughed as he plugged in the drive, "Ok, what am I looking for?"

"Check the SVOI logs," Athos said, "Find out who Aramis has been paired with when he hasn't been with us. Captain believes in teamwork to a fault. Musketeers deployed to SVOI are not random picks. Nothing Treville does is random. We need to figure out who it is Treville is hunting."

"Why?" Porthos said, tapping away at the computer again.

"If we know who's chasing him, we have two leads to follow. Aramis has to know it was an inside job or he would have made contact by now."

"But he trusts us," Porthos said, "No matter what, that can't be in question."

"Yeah but maybe he trusted someone else too," Athos sighed, "Twenty dead. Who do you trust after that? Damn, this is gruesome."

"What?" Porthos looked up from the screen.

"Incident photos and security video, it was ruthless," Athos scrubbed a hand over his face and met Porthos's worried gaze, "It's so brutal it had to be personal Someone is sending a message. No wonder Treville suspects an inside job."

"How'd you get that?" Porthos wondered, "Our clearance was pulled."

"Serge," Athos answered, "He sent them to me in a clean feed. He's been through this. He knows we won't believe it until we see it."

"Old man's gonna get in trouble when Treville finds out," Porthos said, eyes still locked on Athos.

"Treville won't find out. Serge is that good and he's been at it a long time," Athos stopped flipping through the photos and met Porthos's demanding gaze, "You don't want to see this," he said, answering the unspoken question. Porthos had seen heavy combat in the middle east. He was a rock in the field, but the aftermath was sometimes hard. He had a hard time with gaping wounds and excessive amounts of blood. Photos like this could trigger an anxiety attack they didn't have time for. "They were executed. It looks like some of them didn't even fight back. We knew a lot of these guys, not just the Musketeers."

"Who?" Porthos's voice held a dark threat.

"Maeve and Beatrice from Ops. Johnny, Sparky and Sam from the San Francisco unit. Those two Irish guys, the ones that looked like twins . . . " Athos couldn't remember their names.

"Seamus and Francis," Porthos said, jaw tight, "Those were good men. All of 'em, good people."

"If Aramis survived that . . . " Athos's statement was cut off by Porthos's fist hitting the table.

"Not if. He survived," Porthos growled, "Not. If."

"Okay," Athos nodded, "You're right. I'm seeing lots of faces I know, but I'm not seeing Aramis. But not all of the bodies are identifiable. They set charges too. We'd have to wait for DNA to be sure."

"I have eight names," Porthos passed his phone to Athos, the list of men who had worked SVOI the most frequently.

"Dutch, Spider, Rex and Boomer are dead," Athos's voice was emotionless as he rattled off the nom de guerres of four of their musketeer comrades he had seen in the photos. It sucked, but he didn't have the luxury to indulge himself in grief. Not if they were going to find Aramis and whatever musketeer Treville thought betrayed them.

"Booker wasn't there, I saw him at the Garrison when we were on our way to Treville's office," Porthos offered.

Athos tapped at his computer, "Looks like Curly has been on medical leave for two months. Blew out his knee skiing in the alps. No way he was on that mission."

Porthos scrolled down his screen, "Lucky is still in Tunisia. At the beach according to Instagram."

"How can you know that?" Athos asked, "You can post beach photos from anywhere."

"Guy is on his honeymoon, Athos," Porthos said, "That's one hell of an advance cover for murdering musketeers. Do you really think Ginny was a schill?"

"That leaves one name," Athos said, looking up at Porthos and handing him back his phone, "Marsac. So where is he?"

"Damned if I know," Porthos said, scrolling through his screen, "He's not on the current duty roster, not on the leave list, and not suspended."

"How did you get that info?" Athos said, surprised.

"I still have access to all of the active duty rosters from my five weeks on desk duty after that business with Bonnaire last year," Porthos said, "They never took me off the distro lists or the admin site. I see everything except high clearance deployments."

"Like SVOI," Athos said.

"Yeah, like SVOI," Porthos furrowed his brow, "If it's Marsac, that's gonna mess with Aramis's head. Aramis has been friends with him since before the Musketeers. No wonder he went to ground."

"I can imagine Marsac betraying the musketeers, that bastard is the biggest opportunist I've ever met," Athos said, "But Aramis? He's about the one thing Marsac does care about."

"Whatever happened, Aramis is spooked and Marsac is missing," Porthos said, "Do you think they could be together?"

"I don't know," Athos sighed.

"Why hasn't he called in?" Porthos pressed

"I don't know," Athos stared at the screen in front of him. Tapping at a key, the bloody photographs blinked out of existence

"Where did he go?" Porthos continued.

"I don't know," Athos was too tired to be exasperated.

"No one is looking for him except us, right?" Athos nodded in affirmation, "So wouldn't he find a way a send us a message? Wouldn't he know we'd come for him?"

"I don't know," Athos blinked at the screen. He really didn't know. Athos had been betrayed before, deeply, and it almost cost him his own life. Most of his family was dead and if it hadn't been for a long-standing friendship between his father and Treville, he might have gone down for the crime. His ex-wife had framed him, run off with his younger brother, and emptied the family's trust before they found Tommy washed up on a beach in southern Spain. After he was cleared, Treville had pulled strings and got him assigned to the new Musketeer's unit. Athos owed Treville his life - joining the Musketeers had brought him Porthos and Aramis and those two men were bound and determined not to let him die. Of grief, of self-loathing, of loneliness. He couldn't imagine how badly it would break him if he was betrayed by one of them.

But he was not Aramis. Their sharpshooter was a picture of paradoxes but one thing he never questioned was his own unwavering faith. Aramis would have faith in them. He would have sent them a message.

"He would know we'd come for him," Athos revised his answer with a conviction he hadn't felt before, "We just have to figure out where he'd go."

"He can't head back to the Garrison if he thinks he's being hunted so what then?" Porthos was ready to go down the rabbit hole and Athos for a change was right with him.

"He'd stay in Italy," Athos said, "Wouldn't risk crossing the border on any credentials issued by the Musketeers. His Italian is excellent. He would stay in-country. Lay low somewhere he felt safe."

"I'm checking hospitals in Turin for John Doe's fitting his description," Porthos clicked away at the keyboard.

"He'd leave Turin if he could," Athos countered. "Open the search further, anywhere he could drive to in say eight hours max."

"Surprising amount of dark-haired men in their 30s turning up unconscious in hospitals in Italy," Porthos said sarcastically.

"If he had been in that attack, he'd be a mess," Athos said, "Look for multiple lacerations, gunshot wounds or burns from explosions."

"Nothing like that in the last 12 hours," Porthos said, "At least not that I've found yet."

"He might not go to a hospital," Athos speculated, "Clinic, local doctor? He'd even go to a vet if he had to."

"Not gonna find him this way. What else?" Porthos's dark eyes flashed.

"Aliases? You have his credentials?" Athos asked. Porthos nodded, "Start pulling credit cards and passports that we know he's got. Use that app Finegan gave us when we were looking for those smugglers in Bali."

"That's a sweet app," Porthos said, "But if our clearances are pulled will it work?"

"It's not going through our systems, and the app is local to that laptop," Athos explained, "And both of these laptops are clean. These are mine."

"You keep clean gear just sitting around?" Porthos seemed incredulous.

"My trust for any agency, even the Musketeers, only goes so far," Athos shrugged.

"I'm striking out here," Porthos was getting frustrated.

"Run everything we have, agency or not," Athos suggested. They all had multiple identities created for them by INTERPOL, complete with passports, credit cards and backstories. As team leader, Athos had access to everything issued to his men through the Musketeers, but they had a few tricks of their own up their sleeves. Credit cards in the names of relatives and exes, stashes of cash and unregistered firearms in places where they might need them. Nothing like leading a life of an international special ops agent to up anyone's paranoia level although Athos knew, he was an extreme case.

"Well damn," Porthos said with a smirk, "Let me see your wallet."

Athos fished his wallet out of his pocket and flipped it open. It was a slim black leather case, with a neat row of credit cards sorted by color in two rows. One was conspicuously missing, "Bastard stole my bank card again. I'm gonna kill him."

"Yeah, but I got a hit on it," Porthos smiled, "The rail station in Turin."

"When?" Athos chewed on his bottom lip. When was the answer to everything.

"Eight hours ago," Porthos grinned broadly and Athos felt the tension drop from his chest like the release of a metal band.

"Its proof he survived," Porthos couldn't stop smiling, "Treville was wrong."

"Okay, but now we really need to find him," Athos said, "If that call you got was him . . ."

"He's hurt," Porthos finished the sentence, "Didn't get to a hospital, and took a train somewhere out of Turin."

"What does the ticket say?" Athos asked.

"Can't identify that with this app," Porthos said, "It's a Eurorail pass - its good for five days of travel anywhere in Europe. We'd need full access to the agency system to find where he'd use it. Or hack the Eurorail database."

"We don't have time to hack anything. We just have to figure it out. He's not still on a train," Athos puzzled it out, "He bought that with my card so we'd know he'd left Turin, but he's not going to travel that far. He wants us to find him."

"You seem sure about that," Porthos said

"He used my personal card. He knows I'll get a flag on that." Athos tapped at his phone, "It's in my priority email - I just wasn't looking."

"I get so many I don't pay attention," Porthos said.

"You have to read bank security notices," Athos was shocked, "Your identity could be stolen."

"Athos, I have like six identities at this point. So do you," Porthos laughed, "I hardly think it matters."

"Right now, Aramis seems to have stolen one of them," Athos said, "So where did I go next after the train ticket?"

"That's it," Porthos said, "No other charges to that card or any other of mine or yours that I know of."

"Damn," Athos pushed his hair out of his eyes, "Where the hell would he go?"

"First train leaving after he bought that ticket was heading north," Porthos said, "Why would he go north?"

"He wouldn't," Athos answered, "He wouldn't cross the border. What else?"

"Local train to Milan, Local train to Bologna, Express train to Florence . .." Porthos rattled off the timetable, "All within 30 minutes of him purchasing that ticket. Has to be one of those."

"Local stops won't help him," Athos said, "He'd have to go to a major city if he was hiding."

"Not necessarily," Porthos countered, "Fewer records, fewer cameras, more help available that wouldn't leave the kind of records you'd find in a major hospital."

"Porthos, if he is hurt and holed up in some barn in Tuscany someone would call the police as soon as they found him. Or he'd be a corpse in a hayfield somewhere. He needs the resources of a major city. And we have operatives in Florence. Maybe some that he'd trust."

"This is getting us nowhere," Porthos snapped closed his laptop and picked up his phone, flipping through text messages again. Athos knew he hadn't missed anything but he knew Porthos kept hoping.

"In any other circumstances, he'd head for a safe house," Athos said, "But if he's trying to avoid Marsac or the Musketeers, that option would be closed. Where else? Does he have family in Italy? An ex that's still speaking to him?"

"They're all still speaking to him, problem is there are too many to track down efficiently and probably lots we don't even know about." Porthos sighed.

"Old army buddies, someone from university . . . "Athos wracked his brain trying to remember the small details of Aramis's life that he liberally shared during their many stakeouts, bar talks, or sitting by each other's bedsides in the infirmary.

"Wait, wait, wait!" Porthos leaned forward, flipping open the laptop again, "Safehouse logs. I have access to those from the admin site I'm still on." Porthos typed furiously at the keyboard.

"Porthos, he wouldn't," Athos shook his head, "It's too obvious. Why go to all this trouble to hide his trail from the Musketeers if he is just going to show up at a safe house? It's too easy to search in the database."

"If you're looking for him, yeah. But you wouldn't be looking for me," Porthos said, turning the laptop around to face Athos. There on the screen, highlighted in a list, was the name Porthos, logged in to the musketeer safe house in Florence six hours ago.

"You gave him your ID code?" Athos was stunned. It was a complete breach of protocol.

"Well not exactly," Porthos said, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck, "You know how we have to change it every 30 days, yeah? Well, I use the name of the last woman I walked in on him with plus the last four digits of his phone number."

"It happens that often?" Athos sounded shocked.

"It's about the only thing we fight about. He needs to close his damn door."

"So he knows your INTERPOL ID?" Athos couldn't get past Aramis having Porthos's clearance code.

"Well I know his," Porthos shrugged. Athos stared, wide-eyed, "Right now it's his mother's name plus your birthday."

"My birthday? Why my birthday?"

"He figures no one else would know it but us," Porthos said, "Besides, he likes you."

"This is all kinds of wrong," Athos said shaking his head.

"Yeah, well whatever it is we just found him in Florence," Porthos said, turning the computer back around, "And I bet we don't have much time until someone eventually notices my name on this list. So now what?"

"Got that covered," Athos said, "You and I are booked to leave for Spain tomorrow morning."

"Spain?" Porthos was confused. Athos rolled his eyes.

"Spain. Where presumably Aramis's family will hold services and where everyone will expect us to be going," Athos said, "We are on bereavement leave. I've rented us a car and paid for a hotel stay."

"We gotta tell his sisters he's not dead," Porthos looked panicked.

"We can't. Not yet. Not 'til we have him," Athos said. He could tell Porthos wanted to disagree but the big man knew he was right. Despite the optimism they wanted to have, they didn't know for sure Aramis was still alive. Besides, they needed to play the grieving comrades so that anyone looking would see what they expected to see.

"We'll leave anything traceable in the SUV," Athos said, "The agency is going to come looking for their property eventually. But us being here at this bar isn't going to raise any alarms for a while yet. Marie is going to give us a ride."

"Where we going?" Porthos ask, suspicion coloring his face.

"Don't freak out. We're going to get a ride to Florence," Athos said, "From Squeaky."

xxxTTMxxx

It was a testament to how worried Porthos was when he hadn't complained about their transportation to Florence. He just sat white-knuckled and tight-lipped as the retired musketeer piloted what was certainly an illegally obtained US Blackhawk helicopter over international borders without authorization. But that was Squeaky, always had a way to squeak by somehow.

Porthos was not a fan of the garrulous old man, nor particularly confident in how he maintained the fleet of choppers, planes, boats and motorcycles he had someone acquired over the years, but he had agreed with Athos that the only way to Florence without being tracked was Squeaky. Athos, who mostly liked no one, seemed to get along well with the retiree and would often spend his leave time in the cabin on the farm helping Squeaky with chores or maintenance on his fleet of illegal vehicles.

He dropped them in a sunflower field an hour before dawn about a mile outside of Bagno di Ripoli, a thriving town about 25 minutes from downtown Florence. Porthos hiked into town to pick up the rental car Athos had reserved for them while Athos double checked the gear bags, medical supplies, ammo and electronics looking for anything that the Garrison could use to trace them. He had told Marie that when someone came looking for the car to say she had given them a ride home. The quartermaster would eventually log the weapons and realize that some - ok lots - were missing, and when they didn't make their flights for Spain, Treville would start looking. They weren't exactly AWOL as Treville had sent them on leave, but they still had agency firearms and that was a deep breach of protocol.

They'd be hard to find though. Porthos had used Finnegan's app to delete the traces of the train ticket Aramis had purchased. Athos ran his transactions through an old account tagged to his ex-wife that was virtually untraceable back to him. Squeaky had emptied the cashbox for them. They had enough euros to get themselves just about anywhere without having to draw a note off of Athos's considerable line of credit. And even if they did, Athos would contact his attorney for the transaction. They'd done this before when they'd run into trouble on the Bonnaire mission, but Treville still didn't know the half of what they had pulled off, which was what had landed them all on desk duty for weeks. There was a reason MU1 was considered the elite unit of the squad.

Waiting for Porthos to return, Athos had ample time to think things through again. They were doing more than breaching protocol, they were breaking international law by crossing a border illegally, armed to the teeth, and without any regard for the orders from their unit commander. If they were caught, Treville couldn't bail them out of this if he wanted to - unless it was to suggest a firing squad in France. No, they were completely on their own and risking everything for the sake of one man.

It didn't have to go this way. They could have told Treville that they thought Aramis had escaped the massacre. Athos knew in his gut he could trust Treville, had always trusted him, but something about the entire thing wasn't adding up. Marsac was an operative like they were, but not even a team leader. He would not have had the clearances, resources or access to pull off an operation as large as what was needed to have taken down 20 INTERPOL agents. There had to be more to this than one rogue agent and until they knew the rest, no musketeer was safe. Aramis alive was no more than an inconvenient loose end to whoever had orchestrated the murder of the SVOI team. They had to stay off-grid to find Aramis, keep him alive, and maybe get to the bottom of whatever was going on. Aramis had been there, he was too good of an agent not to know something. It wasn't just Aramis's life at stake, it might be the entire Garrison.

At least that's what Athos kept telling himself because he was damned uncomfortable owning the fact that he'd risk anything for the two men who had been by his side for the last three years. He'd been hollowed out by grief and loss when he'd joined the musketeers. He had expected to die somewhere on a mission, or in the bottom of a bottle of whisky in some hell hole in Africa or the Middle East. He had expected just about any fate other than those two men crashing into his life. He would do anything for them, just like he would have done anything for Anne or for Thomas. Only he'd been completely wrong about both of them, about his own family. But he wasn't wrong about Aramis and Porthos. He didn't think he'd survive it if he was and he wasn't going to fight it now. Whatever walls and barriers he had told himself he needed, his heart had had other ideas. They had become his brothers, in a way Thomas never really had been. All for one, one for all. He'd bought into Treville's musketeer motto a long time ago. Those two had refused to let him do otherwise.

Athos heard the crunch of gravel on the farm road and stood, shading his eyes in the early morning sun to see a nondescript black SUV curling up the drive. That would be Porthos. Athos was done brooding. One of his brothers was in trouble and Athos was going to move heaven and earth to bring him home. That's just how it was.


	3. Part Two

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the sporadic posting but it's my busy season at work and I'm slipping in Musketeers as best I can. Hopefully, everyone is alright with this workday schedule. An after-dinner encounter with Aramis tonight or maybe morning coffee with Athos? Or perhaps Porthos will just take over your lunch break tomorrow. Regardless, hope you enjoy the next installment! Thanks, as always, to Issai for beta-reading. The mistakes - particularly the ones about policing and field medicine - are all mine.

PART TWO

The first thing they noticed as the metal door shut softly behind them was the slick of blood in the entry hall. They quietly dropped their bags and drew their guns, eyes roving for any sign of an immediate threat. Athos kept watch while Porthos quickly tapped in his security code to rearm the alarms for the safe house.

iT looked like a murder scene from a movie, streaks of blood in a wide swath leaving a gruesome trail. Someone had been dragged. More blood, still sticky, was layered beneath their feet. Whatever had happened here, there had been more than one person involved. With a glance at each other, the two men moved forward, advancing toward the main room.

Porthos dropped low and Athos went high as they entered the doorway scanning for an immediate threat. The room seemed undisturbed, pristine in its upscale grey and white decor. They used this house for holding dignitaries so it was far from some of the fleabag apartments Athos and Porthos had had the pleasure of using. It was placid, comfortable and sleek - a perfect hideaway except for the trail of blood that continued over the Italian marble floor. With a gesture and a glance, Athos indicated that Porthos should move forward.

There were two more doors off the main room. To the right was a hallway with three bedrooms and a bathroom. The opening to the left was to the dining area and kitchen where the trail of blood continued. With a look and a nod, Athos indicated that Porthos go to the right. He could see the protest in his friend's eyes, but no matter what they were feeling they were going to run this by the books. Two of them, two possible places for an enemy - they had to cover them both. Athos moved forward quietly, following the bloody trail toward the dining area while Porthos made his way toward the bedrooms.

Keeping his Glock at the ready Athos slipped into the room. The dining and kitchen area was large and sunny. A glass block wall from floor to ceiling let in the morning light but obscured any view of the interior. The long grey barn-wood table would have seated 10 comfortably but instead, a body was laid out in place of dinner plates.

In the space of a breath, Athos took in the bloody bandages and used syringes littering the floor, the IV bag jury-rigged to a broomstick duct taped onto a chair, and the unmistakable mop of curly brown hair obscuring a ghost-pale face. He stepped toward the table and immediately registered his mistake when he felt the press of a gun against the back of his head. He hadn't fully cleared the room and it was about to cost him his life. He froze, keeping both hands out in front of him.

"Who are you?" a low male voice demanded from behind him. Several answers flickered in Athos's mind as the man reached around to pull the gun from his hand but a restless moan from the table pushed one to the forefront.

"I'm his friend," Athos said calmly, pushing his emotions back. They were a tool he could use, but he needed his head, not his heart, to get them out of this alive. "I've come to help him - like I see you've been doing."

"Help him or kill him, Marsac?" the bitterness of the man's tone surprised Athos as much as the name. But it also confirmed that what he had speculated about why Aramis was on the run - and proved someone else didn't trust the man either. Someone who had helped Aramis. Pieces of the puzzle fell into place in Athos's mind and a new picture emerged - an unexpected ally if Athos could convince the man not to shoot him.

"I'm not Marsac," Athos said, recognizing that his own tone held some of the same bitterness the man had, "I'm INTERPOL, we're in the same unit. But that's where it ends. I want that bastard for what he did to Aramis." Something about what he had said must have hit home because the gun eased up slightly and a soft surprised exhale ghosted over his neck.

"Aramis," the man repeated the name softly and Athos heard recognition in his voice, "He's a Musketeer," the man's tone held a note of respect.

Athos knew his team was well-known in INTERPOL circles and with other law enforcement groups around the world. They had been ballsy enough to name themselves after one of the most legendary fighting teams in history, and then they had lived up to the expectations. Everyone wanted to be a Musketeer after the reputation of their team had grown during the first year of the unit.

A few feet away, Aramis moaned softly again. His hand plucked fitfully at the bloody sheet covering most of his torso. He muttered something that Athos could not understand, but the note of distress was clear.

"He needs help," Athos said calmly despite the worry rising up in his chest.

"Who are you?" the man demanded, the gun reasserting itself against Athos's head.

"He's your death sentence if you don't release him right now," Porthos's low growl sounded from close behind him. From the way the man stiffened, Athos suspected his captor was also experiencing a firearm pressed to his head. Athos had to give Porthos credit, he hadn't heard him come in either.

"You realize if you shoot me my finger's gonna pull this trigger," the man's voice had taken on a cocky edge. He was probably right, that the trigger pull would be an automatic response, but Athos wondered if the cockiness was hiding his fear. No one wanted to die.

"Soldiers make sacrifices," Porthos, on the other hand, sounded completely in control. His voice had a coldness that Athos knew well. Porthos would do what he had to do. Athos just had to believe that trading his life for Aramis's was not the option his friend was pursuing.

"Unless one of you is an EMS Level 1 Medic, I suggest you drop your weapons," the guy was confident, Athos would give him that.

"Not on your life," Porthos answered, "Let 'im go."

"That guy on the table's your friend, right?" the man dug a hand into Athos's shoulder as his tension rose, "You'll be planning two funerals if you shoot me. I'm all that's been keeping him alive," the passion in the man's voice was telling as the cocky bravado of earlier and Athos had the feeling he was almost as desperate to help Aramis as they were. It could be a ruse, but Athos didn't think so. He decided to play into the guy's commitment to saving Aramis. He'd figure out why he was so committed afterward.

"There was a lot of blood. I'm guessing you sewed him up?" Athos asked as if it was a routine conversation about fixing a car, "You saved his life. We appreciate it, more than you know," Athos was relieved as the man's rough grip relaxed slightly. He pursued the tactic, keeping focused on the man's interest in helping Aramis, "How is he now? What can we do for him?"

The man let out a deep exhale as if resigning himself to the conversation, "Put in some temporary stitches and taped it up but he keeps pulling the wound apart. Breathing is rough."

"You using morphine?" Porthos's tone had shifted to match Athos's, calm and non-confrontational. Athos could imagine that voice on a domestic violence call or talking down a suicide when he had been a foot patrol cop in London. "Aramis doesn't react well to that. A little is fine but too much morphine and he hallucinates and his respiration is compromised."

"Morphine's all we had in the kits. He was fighting me hard, didn't want to go under," the man explained.

"That's Aramis, a fighter," Porthos fondly confirmed.

"He needs Narcan to counteract the effects," Athos made sure his tone was measured but soft. Letting something of his feelings for his friend shine through, "And fentanyl instead of morphine. Let me help him."

The man behind him said nothing, but Athos knew he had to be thinking it over. They were gaining his trust. He just needed to take one more step to convince him they meant no harm.

"Porthos," Athos said with a quiet tone of command, "Lower your weapon."

"Athos…," Porthos was on the edge, Athos knew it. Behind him, Athos felt the man who held him stiffen. Aramis moaned softly, mumbling something incoherent but with a tone of utter desperation. He was begging for something. Aramis's pain was affecting his rescuer too.

"He's kept Aramis alive so far. I trust he'll continue. Lower your weapon," Athos said it again, knowing Porthos wouldn't disobey an order twice. The silence stretched but finally, Porthos sighed.

"I sure as hell hope you know what you're doin'," Athos heard the safety click in on Porthos's weapon and the big man stepped further into the room, side by side with Athos. Athos tried to give him a reassuring glance but Porthos was having none of it, his jaw set in a taut line. Behind him, the man with the gun still hadn't moved. Athos fought to find his patience as Aramis's muttering devolved into strangled, weakly rasping breaths. The pitiful sounds of his wounded friend won out over Athos's plan to stay unemotional and wait out the man with the gun.

"Either let me go or shoot me because I'm not standing here watching him die. And I don't think you want to either," With that, Athos stepped away from the man holding him. There was no shot, no attempt to restrain him just a long, soft exhale that might have been relief.

Athos spared a glance to Porthos, who met his gaze with a look that told him he was in for a lecture about his reckless, self-destructive behavior as soon as they were out of this situation. Athos gave an apologetic shrug that both of them knew was only half sincere and then Porthos was striding to Aramis's side while Athos turned to confront the man who had been holding him at gunpoint.

"Thank you," Athos said to the young man as he holstered his weapon. And young he was. Lean and lanky in his black t-shirt and jeans, he brushed his straight brown from his face before giving Athos a nod. Athos watched the kid's eyes dart up and down as he gave him a once over, the question of if he could trust Athos clearly defined by the slight frown and creased brow as he made his assessment. Before Athos had the opportunity to question Aramis's unknown savior, a ragged cry pulled both of their attention to the wounded man behind them.

"No, no..." Aramis called weakly pulling ineffectually at Porthos who had captured his wrists in his big grip, "Let me go. Marsac, let me go…," Porthos was holding Aramis' wrists to his chest, trying to keep him still on the table.

Porthos's face was determined but his eyes were wide as Athos approached him. He knew the situation was hard on the big man - as tough as he was, Porthos did not handle trauma well, particularly when there was blood involved. The bloody sheet covering his friend had to be giving Porthos trouble as he worried about what was beneath it.

Athos stood at the head of the table, reaching for Aramis's head and putting his hands on either side of his face.

"Aramis," Athos called to his incoherent friend, trying to get him to meet his eyes, "You're alright, stop fighting, let us help you." Aramis strained to move his head but he was incredibly weak, causing more alarm to Athos as he assessed his friend's condition.

Finally, the sharpshooter's eyes found his, but it was no comfort. One pupil was wide and unresponsive and his eyes held no recognition as they settled on Athos face, all signs of a head wound.

"Marasc...don't...we have to help..." Aramis sounded exhausted as he muttered up at Athos, "Don't leave me with the corpses ...mi hermano, por favor, ayudame…," Aramis descended into a string of garbled Spanish, his tone plaintive.

"Aramis settle down," Athos said soothingly, hoping at least something would penetrate to relieve his friend's distress. He shifted his hand to place one over Aramis's forehead and the wounded man whined in pain. Changing his grip, he turned Aramis's head to the side and carefully ran a hand through his hair. The dark curls were matted with blood and at the hairline was a deep gash, the flesh swollen around it.

"Not my eyes…" the words were English again, slurred and terrified, "The ravens…"

"Ravens?" Athos said, looking up at the other two men in confusion.

"He's been saying that," the young man said from where he had joined them on the other side of the table. He pulled down the bloody sheet, exposing a jagged and wicked slash progressing down the sharpshooter's left side. He peered at the wound, frowning, then pressed a clean cloth into Aramis's side, "This is bad. We have to reseal this."

"Shouldn't we get 'im to a hospital?" Porthos's voice was clipped and tense, Athos could see the perspiration beading on his forehead. Porthos was having a hard time holding it together as the white cloth became saturated in Aramis's blood.

"He won't make it," the young man said. Aramis continued to mutter about ravens and Marsac, but his energy was waning and he was no longer struggling against them. The kid was right, Aramis was losing this fight. "I can seal this up again if you can get his breathing stable."

"This is crazy," Porthos was getting angry, "I don't know who the hell you are but you ain't makin' decisions about his life."

"I don't know who the hell you are but I just spent the last five hours trying to keep him alive and I'm not going to lose him now!" the young man's eyes flashed dangerously and Porthos responded with what could only be interpreted as a growl.

"He's right," Athos cut in,a tone of command coming to him naturally, "We need to know who you are, why you're helping Aramis before we go any further."

"Seriously?" the young man looked at Athos in disbelief, "I'm covered in this guy's blood from head to toe and you want to know if you can trust me?" He stared at Athos, bold and defiant, but it wasn't enough for either Athos or Porthos to back down. Athos met his gaze with a determined one of his own.

"Who are you?" quiet as the statement was, Athos clearly expected an answer. He watched Porthos loosen his grip on Aramis to let one hand dangle casually at his side, next to where his secondary weapon was tucked into a hip holster. The young man's gaze flicked between them, and Athos sincerely hoped they were not about to be in another standoff with Aramis helpless between them.

Finally, the young man gave a disgusted flip of his head as he shifted his grip on the bandage to reach one hand behind him. Athos immediately reached toward his own weapon but the guy sensed it and reassured them, "I'm going for ID, that's it. It's in my back pocket." They stilled as the kid pulled a badge portfolio from his back pocket and tossed it at Athos, not letting up pressure on Aramis's wound.

Athos caught the badge with one hand, reassured to see the INTERPOL crest pinned to the cover. He flipped it open.

"Chas de Batz," Athos read.

"CB," the young man corrected him.

"Says you're American," Athos continued.

"Boston. I was Boston PD until I joined INTERPOL las year," the kid pushed his hair out of his face in a gesture that made him look much younger than the 26 years his ID said he was. Unusual for someone so young to already be an INTERPOL agent. The kid had to be good.

"Well CB, why you helpin' 'im?" Porthos demanded.

"Cause otherwise he'd be dead," CB stared back defiantly at Porthos, "I didn't become a cop to just stand aside when someone's in trouble."

"But you didn't call it in," Athos said, "Why?"

"A wounded man shows up at a safe house, has all the clearances to get in but no ID and nothing traceable, mutters something incoherent about ravens and pleads to some guy named Marsac to let him go - he's obviously escaped from someone and is on the run," CB was frustrated, but answering them, "Hospitals blocks away, but he came here instead. A bulletin is out on a takedown on a special ops mission in Turin and a search for the guy who's name he's muttering. I'm thinking this guy's an agent and needs help - quiet help that stays off the radar cause this Marsac, he's INTERPOL too."

"How did you know he wasn't part of the assault," Porthos questioned, his eyes narrowing, "That's a big assumption on your part."

"Did you hear the part where I was a cop before this?" CB's eyes flashed with pride, "I can tell the difference between a purp and a vic. I couldn't figure out who he was - Aramis - but Marsac...oh you know I ran that name and nothing pretty comes up about him. Surprised he made it into the Musketeers you being so elite and everything. Well, maybe you guys aren't as good as they say," the guy's pearly smile held a challenge that Porthos looked ready to take.

Athos didn't like the story. While CB seemed sincere in helping Aramis, there was something about all of it that didn't add up. Like why CB was here in the first place and why he'd spent hours with Aramis and not called it in to anyone, not even his superiors or someone that he presumably could trust. But they didn't have any more time. Below him on the table, Aramis's struggles had ceased, his skin was cold and grey. They were losing him.

"Porthos, in my bag," Athos commanded, "The med kit is in the side pouch," Porthos didn't move, probably about to go down the rabbit hole with the same questions Athos had. They didn't have time.

"Porthos," Athos raised his volume slightly and was rewarded with the big man's brown eyes finding his, "Get the Narcan. Now." Athos knew he could have done it himself but it was for all their sakes that Porthos didn't get too caught up in what was about to happen. They were going to need him fully functioning to get out of this.

"Let me see that," Athos nodded toward where CB's hands pressed the cloth to Aramis's side. To his credit, CB set aside whatever issues he was having with them and focused immediately on the wound. He pulled up the cloth to reveal a bloody mess.

"Damn," Athos breathed, looking at the jagged cut slicing through Aramis's torso. CB wiped at the blood and Athos could see the stitches through the ragged flesh. They weren't holding, some ripping right through the skin, "Ok, looks like a Ka-bar did that," Athos gave his head a shake.

"How do you know?" CB asked as he assessed the remaining stitches.

"The torn edge is from the serration on the blade," Athos explained, "Saw enough of that in combat to know it."

"Where were you?" CB asked, not looking up.

"Where wasn't I is a better question," Athos said grimly, "Afghanistan, Iraq, Syria, Côte d'Ivoire . . . been everywhere."

"I'm just gonna have to try to sew more of this," CB said, frustrated.

"No, you need to glue it, strip it, wrap it, and then we get him to a real surgeon," Athos countered.

"Glue it?" CB looked up in disbelief.

"Surgi-glue and steri-strips will keep that together long enough to get him out of here," Athos said. "It's what we did in the field if someone got pinged and we couldn't evac them right away."

"That's not how they trained us," the kid looked dubious as he considered Athos's direction."

"EMS training is urban, they assume you are going to be putting that guy on an ambulance," Athos said, "Combat training is a whole 'nother thing." Before the kid could protest further, Porthos reappeared with a red medic kit already open, five glass bottles neatly lined up inside elastic straps along the lid. Reluctantly, Athos let go of Aramis so he could pull one from the case and ready a syringe. He knew he couldn't ask Porthos. In fact, he needed to get him out of the room before Porthos's unease could bloom into a full-on panic attack.

"Thanks, leave that and get on the computer," Athos ordered, relying on Porthos's training to override his emotions. He wasn't disappointed as Porthos nodded and turned away. "Find out if anyone is looking for us yet. And if anyone's got a line on Marsac."

"On it," the big man said over his shoulder, probably relieved to have a task that took him out of the vicinity of all of the blood. Once Aramis was stable and patched up properly, Athos doubted he would be able to get Porthos to leave their friend's side, but right now, it was better for all of them he wasn't here.

"Here," Athos handed CB the kit, "There's glue in there. Just dot it in where the sutures are weak and then line the entire thing with steri-strips. I'll help you wrap him up after I get the Narcan administered."

CB shook his head but to the kid's credit, he didn't argue. While CB started with the wound, Athos took some flexible tubing from the kit and tied it off around Aramis's bicep. He took Aramis's hand and rotated his arm to get access to the tender spot just above his elbow. Athos balled Aramis's hand into a fist and flexed his wrist a few times to get the blood moving. It took a while but finally, Athos could feel the bulge of a vein beneath his fingers. Holding Aramis at the elbow, he stuck the needle into his arm, injecting a heavy dose of Narcan. It would work quickly to reverse the effects of the morphine but Athos was worried it would be too little, too late. Aramis's lips had a tinge of blue and his skin was grey. He slipped a hand to Aramis's neck to find a pulse. It was steady but slow. Aramis needed real help, not meatball medicine from a street medic and a war vet.

"How's that coming?" Athos said letting his hand linger on Aramis's shoulder, reluctant to break contact.

"Well, it's staying together," CB said with a glance to Athos, "The Narcan?" he asked with a raised brow.

"He's breathing is deeper," Athos said looking down at his friend. The rasp was gone from each inhale too.

"He's gonna be in a world of hurt if he wakes up," CB said, working on lining the entire slash with steri-strips. "He was in tremendous pain when I started to treat this."

"I've got the fentanyl for that. He doesn't have the same issues with it." Athos explained.

"They just issue that into your kits?" CB sounded incredulous.

"Not exactly," Athos said and couldn't help the smile that tugged at his lips as he remembered Aramis sweet-talking the pretty nurse while Porthos pocketed two glass vials from her tray before pretending to faint and sending the entire thing crashing to the ground. Athos, of course, had refused to participate but had watched the entire thing from the doorway off Aramis's hospital room. There was always something with those two.

"Athos," Porthos called from the doorway. He stopped short from coming all the way into the room as he looked nervously at where CB was working over his friend, "We got some issues." He tipped his head toward the living room as he walked away, suggesting that Athos should follow him.

Reluctant as he was to leave Aramis's side, Athos needed to know what was going on. He gave CB a glance and was reassured by the kid's affirmative nod - he had this. Athos left him to it and walked into the living room. Porthos had a laptop open on the coffee table, a tablet beside it and a smartphone next to that. Two handguns were within easy reach. It looked like a little command center. Athos plopped down next to him on the couch, feeling the tiredness in his limbs. It had been a long 18 hours.

"What do you have?" Athos asked, rubbing a hand at the back of his neck.

"Nothing good," Porthos sighed, "Let's start with Marsac. There's a full out manhunt on. Looks like at the very least he is a deserter but given the resources, INTERPOL is throwing at this, they have to think he's involved."

"Where are they looking?" Athos asked.

"All over Italy," Porthos said, "They don't think he's crossed a border. But there's also this," Porthos tapped at the touchscreen on the laptop and swiped a few screens out of the way, "Here," Porthos pointed, "There is some action in Turin but also Milan. Looks like two raids there on what were probably SVOI targets but also this," Porthos pulled up another screen.

"That's an action at the Italian consulate in Paris," Athos said looking at the roster, "Treville sent Rochefort's team in."

"Musketeers have to be spread thin for Treville to do that," Porthos said with a snort.

"No, Rochefort's got connections," Athos interjected, "Worked for Richelieu in Rome when he was assigned Minister of Italy before he was appointed Minister of Europe and Foreign Affairs. Wouldn't be surprised if Richelieu requested Rochefort on this one."

"So the Italian government is involved," Porthos said

"Could be cleanup since the incident itself happened in Turin," Athos said, "Or could be the mission was against an Italian official. This was one hell of team they had there. Hardly a group you'd send in for something small."

"None of this is adding up to anything good," Porthos agreed.

"What about us?" Athos asked.

"They found the SUV at the Wren. Motorpool records show it's returned," Porthos said picking up his tablet "Lucia emailed me, said Treville was looking for us and wanted to know if we were okay, if we were coming to the funeral." Porthos gave Athos a hard look. It was difficult to lie to Aramis's family and while they knew they could trust his older sister there couldn't contact her until they knew Aramis was safe. Right now, none of them were.

"So Treville's looking," Athos said.

"Yeah, and it's not going to take much to find my security code here," Porthos said and tapped at the tablet again. He handed it to Athos, "They maybe already did," he said. Athos looked at the quartermaster's log that Porthos still had access to. There was a unit checked out to head to Florence. Two teams. They were out of time.

"We need to go," Athos said, sitting up.

"What do we do though," Porthos said through tight lips, "Aramis needs a hospital."

"You know we can't do that," Athos answered, 'It's not safe until we know what's going on."

"So, what, we just go to ground in some hole in the wall and watch Aramis slowly bleed to death," Porthos stood, hand on his hips, angry, "What was all this about then if it wasn't about saving 'im!" Porthos shouted.

"We're going to save him!" Athos was up too, facing off with one of his best friends over the fate of the other.

"And how do you plan to do that without a hospital or a doctor!" Porthos shouted, "You can't fix everything on your own, Athos. We need help and your stubbornness is going to end up with Aramis dead."

"Well, what's your plan?" Athos was angry, "Put him in the one place everyone is expecting he'll turn up and let whoever didn't kill him the first time to finish the job?"

"You two are incredible," a voice cut through their argument as both men turned toward Chas standing in the doorway. "Neither one of you have a clue and yet you'll just stand there and fight about who's right. Aramis is damn lucky he found me."

"Yeah, what's your plan," Porthos challenged with a laugh that was more like a threat.

"A surgeon," CB said smugly, "I know one, off-grid completely. Two hours away if the two of you can stop arguing and figure out how to get us there."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Thanks for all of you who are sticking with this story! I appreciate your comments so much, and love the speculation about what is next! For all those kudos on the work that I can't respond to - wow! You make my day :)
> 
> If you are still speculating about CB, I did leave you a major historical and linguistic clue! Let me know if you figure out what it is.


	4. Part Three

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long delay - lots of fics all going on at once! Hard to keep up but I promise to finish them all :). Very much appreciate all of the kudos and comments on this story. Warms my heart :). 
> 
> My thanks as always to Issai and her faithful attention to details that make it all work. The remaining mistakes are all mine.

“You know a surgeon?” Porthos huffed, “Ain’t it convenient you just turn up here with all the answers.”

“I say for your friend, it’s lucky,” CB snorted, “Don’t see you being much help. Kinda squeamish for a field agent, aren’t you?” CB smirked as his cruel comment hit home. 

Porthos shook his head and gave the kid a smile, the kind of smile that suggested he was about to rip his head off of his body. Athos sighed. There really wasn’t time for this.

“Porthos, leave it.” Athos commanded his friend, trusting that the big man would listen. Two years together had to mean more than this moment of rage, no matter how on the edge he was because of Aramis and no matter how deeply the kid’s comment had stung. Athos was impressed though that the kid had picked up on Porthos’s issue. He generally hid it well from all but them. CB was pretty intuitive to have pieced that together from the brief exchange they had while he worked to stabilize Aramis’s wound.

“How long do you think until those teams from the Garrison get to Florence?” Athos asked, pulling the musketeer’s focus back to the situation at hand. Porthos continued to hold the kid’s gaze, his eyes narrowed and calculating, but he answered Athos’s question calmly.

“We have 2 hours tops, possibly less if they already have clearances to land at Peretola,” Porthos replied, “Let’s assume worst-case and they are taking off now, we’ve got about an hour till they turn up here.”

“Alright, we need transportation out of the city that can’t be traced,” Athos said, knowing Porthos would understand that as a command to him, “And you,” Athos turned his gaze to CB, “Get it set up with this surgeon and then let’s get Aramis ready to move. 2 hours in the back of a car is not going to help him.”

“You’re just gonna trust ‘im…” Porthos sounded incredulous and Athos had to question if his own judgement was compromised in this. He knew his concern about Aramis was coloring his decision-making but with Musketeers on their way, there just wasn’t time to sort himself out. He had to make a choice, trust his gut, and then hope to hell he could get them all out of this if he was wrong about this kid. But he just didn’t think he was.

“He’s right, we are out of time and out of options,” Athos said, “Hospital is out of the question and if there is a chance we can get Aramis somewhere safe and with medical care, we have to take it.” 

Porthos was not happy. It was all over his face. But as he met Athos’s cool stare there was something desperate in his eyes. Athos was right, they had no other options other than going to the hospital, revealing that Aramis wasn’t dead, and making all three of them a target for whoever had orchestrated the raid in Turin. And whoever it was, had to have power and a long reach to have pulled it off. Porthos needed hope because it was looking rather bleak as the pathway out of their situation narrowed. Athos gave him a reassuring nod, grateful to see the acquiescence in his friend’s eyes. But also a raised brow and a glance to CB. Porthos would be keeping an eye on the kid and expected the same from Athos. Athos nodded in agreement. He might be throwing his lot in with this stranger, but he wasn’t fool enough to ignore that things seemed to be falling into place a little too easily.

“You two a couple or something?” CB said, throwing up his hands, “Can you stop making eyes and let’s go?” Athos and Porthos both couldn’t help the smile that tugged at their lips. Their silent communication was well known, and well mocked, throughout the regiment. The kid would figure out was going on between them soon enough if he was as intuitive as he seemed, but for now, they left the statement alone. No need to give away all of their secrets.

“I’ve got some spare clothes in my bag,” Athos said, gesturing toward the foyer where they’d dropped their gear, “Let’s get Aramis dressed while Porthos finds us some transportation. Thirty minutes, I want to be ready to head out,” Athos issued the order and happily he got no pushback from CB. The kid nodded and headed toward the foyer. Athos turned to follow but Porthos put a hand on his arm to stop him.

“Something I didn’t tell you,” Porthos said quietly in Athos’s ear, “I ran what I could on the kid. He’s INTERPOL but he’s currently on leave - bereavement leave. His father was killed two weeks ago while they were on vacation in France. They were on their way to Paris and got on the wrong side of a robbery. The kid was with him. Guy died in his arms.”

“That’s hard,” Athos said, shoving down his own memories of dead family.

“Yeah and sad but think, Athos,” Porthos said darkly, “If the kid is on bereavement what is he doing at an INTERPOL safe house with Aramis?” Porthos gave Athos a meaningful look. They needed to address this soon, because the more they found out, the less either of them liked it. Athos gave Porthos a nod of understanding and the big man let him go. They were going to have to watch their backs.

XxxTTMXXX

They ended up putting Aramis in a pair of sweatpants and a soft blue oversized t-shirt, hoping the loose fabric would not interfere with the bandages. Aramis roused slightly as they dressed him, fidgeting and making small sounds that might have been words. Athos thought this could be a good sign, but CB reminded him that it might just be the pain kicking in as the morphine wore off. Athos frowned, not liking the idea of Aramis hurting, but it was a little too soon for the fentanyl. The narcan worked quickly to reverse the effects of morphine, but still the body needed some recovery time between the use of those intense drugs. 

“There are some blankets in the bedroom,” CB as he walked toward the door, “I’ll grab ‘em and maybe some pillows so we can prop him somehow while we travel.” 

Athos gave a nod to the young man as he walked off. With Aramis, CB was caring, gentle and careful. With Porthos he seemed to want to pick a fight or insult the man at every turn. With him . . . well Athos wasn’t sure. CB seemed wary on one hand but then, when they got engaged with something about Aramis’s care, they worked together seamlessly, as if they had known each other a much longer time than a few short hours. Athos rarely found this kind of rapport with anyone. It’s part of what made Porthos and Aramis so important to him. With them, he fit. It was strange to find he was fitting with CB too. At least when the guy wasn’t looking at him suspiciously out of the corner of his eye. Although Athos could hardly blame him, he was just as suspicious of Aramis’s unlikely rescuer as CB seemed to be of him.

The kid returned with the blankets and Athos took a grey comforter from the pile and draped it carefully over Aramis, tucking the edges carefully around his body. Aramis made no sign if he recognized the softness enfolding him. His breathing was better but still more labored than Athos was comfortable with. Without thinking he brushed aside the mop of curly hair surrounding Aramis’s face, letting his hand linger a moment on his friend’s forehead. Athos didn’t believe in god, but Aramis did - at least whatever version of god Buddhists followed. He wasn’t sure if you were supposed to pray to Buddha, but Athos sighed and just said please. Please heal him. He figured that was a worthy request of just about any deity that might be out there watching over his friend.

“He means a lot to you,” CB observed from where he had retreated to a chair by the other end of the table. The boy’s eyes were hooded, his face a mixture of unidentifiable emotions. He seemed to be putting forward compassion but still that wariness. Athos sighed and moved his hand from Aramis’s head, taking up another chair and straddling it, folding his arms over the back.

“He is my brother-in-arms,” Athos said simply, “As is Porthos. They are like family.”

“Surprised a man like you cares about family,” CB’s comment was flip but had a sting nonetheless.

“A man like me?” Athos queried, wondering what the kid was getting at.

“Well you’re a musketeer, right?” CB said, “the most elite fighting force in INTERPOL, possibly the world. Ruthless, I hear.”

“Well don’t believe everything you hear,” Athos replied, shaking his head sadly, “I’ve never taken a life casually, never without cause. And I remember the names of the men I’ve killed.”

“How would you know who your victims are?” CB said.

“Victims? I take out purps,” Athos said, “Criminals. Child traffickers. Drug and arms dealers.”

“Yeah, we all know what the musketeers do,” CB answered tipping up his head and giving a dark smile, “but we don’t really know who you are. What kind of men are you? Do you really live up to your adopted motto - all for one, one for all? Cause it looks to me like another musketeer is who sliced up your friend here.”  
Athos wasn’t sure what this line of questioning was about, or the dark and accusatory tone he was taking, but it sent a flicker of electricity along his spine. Something was just not right about this guy.

“Why are you here, CB?” Athos asked, shifting forward to wrap his arms over the chair, “Why are you helping Aramis?”

“I’m here because of a coincidence really,” CB said, blinking off into the distance, “I have been on the hunt for a man and the search lead me here, just in time for your friend Aramis there to pretty much fall into my arms.”

“The man who killed your father?” Athos asked softly. CB flinched at that and licked his lips nervously, shifting his long fingers to rake through his hair before answering. 

“You know about that,” CB answered with a disingenuous smile. Or at least Athos thought it was disingenuous as the easy upturn of his lips did not match the pain that darkened his eyes.

“Porthos checked,” Athos said simply, “I’m sorry for your loss. I’ve lost family too.”

“So I’m supposed to feel pity for you?” CB asked.

“No,” Athos said, “It means I feel empathy for you.” He held the young man’s gaze, searching his dark eyes for some sign further of the boy’s intentions. He seemed scorched and raw, then flip and confident all in the space of a moment. It was hard to get the measure of the man, but Athos knew too that grief cast long shadows on the soul. One thing was certain to Athos, CB was not himself in this moment, even if the kid didn’t realize it himself. That made him a risky ally, but they had little choice. 

“Look, you asked if I was ruthless,” Athos said, never dropping his eyes from the man across from him, “Yes, I’m ruthless. If you harm the people I love, if you hurt the innocent, if you threaten the security and sovereignty of the nations we serve, then yes, I am ruthless.”

“Like a musketeer of old,” CB said wistfully, “I wish it was always that simple.”

“It is simple. You said you became a cop to help people,” Athos answered, “I joined the military for the same reason. I couldn’t sit on the sidelines any more. I had to be in it. I had to have a place where I could make a difference.” It wasn’t completely true. Athos had joined the military in hopes of at least dying for a cause, but dying was the ultimate goal. Self-destruction after what had happened to his family. But then Treville intervened, and Aramis and Porthos, and with the musketeers, Athos found something to live for and to fight for. He had an urge to tell all of this to CB because if he knew one thing well it was grief and he knew the abject despair that had to be eating at the kid’s heart just two weeks after his father’s death. But Athos was not Porthos with his easy conversation or Aramis with his deep intuition. Athos was a problem-solver and CB and his presence here was a situation to be understood. He was not one to offer comfort easily. Athos wanted to press the kid further but CB’s phone rang and he stood as he answered.

“You’re all set?” he asked, then nodded at the answer, “Good, good. That’s perfect. We’ll be there soon, a little over two hours,” he said giving a confirming nod to Athos. This was the surgeon he’d called earlier, confirming he would be ready for them. “Yeah, I know I’m asking a lot. But I need you to trust me . . .” the words trailed off as CB left the room to finish the conversation in private. 

Athos considered following him, trying to eavesdrop on the rest of the conversation but where would it really get him other than to undo the trust he had been trying to build in the kid since he’d held him at gunpoint. Athos didn’t want to rock the boat further with Aramis’s life in the balance. But all of this trust, It was asking a lot of all of them.  
Athos sighed and rubbed a hand over his face before pushing himself up from the chair. He paced distractedly between Aramis laid out on the table and the window overlooking one of the crooked streets of Florence. He was having trouble thinking things through clearly and he knew it was because he was worried for his friend. He wished for a moment he was as ruthless as the kid thought him to be - then maybe whatever it was he was feeling would stay buried with his memories in the black pit that was his heart.

Athos considered that he really needed a drink.

Before he had time to act on the impulse and scour the cupboards, Porthos came back. The big man stepped beside Aramis, giving his comrade a worried look before his eyes flicked up to find Athos and give his report.

“We’re set,” Porthos was clipped and efficient. Athos knew this to signal he was on edge, on alert, watching over them all like an eagle defending the nest. “Transport is downstairs. Are we ready to move him?”

“Yeah, we’ve patched him up as best as we can, CB alerted the surgeon and he’s prepared, just need to get him out. Not sure we’ll be able to rouse him enough to walk.”

“Not a problem,” Porthos said, “I’ve got ‘im. You get the gear.” Porthos shifted to untape the IV from the broomstick. He laid it on Aramis’s chest then tucked the man’s hand over it. He slid one hand under the sharpshooter’s legs, the other under his back and picked him up as tenderly as one might a child. Porthos was strong - something Athos and Aramis we’re eternally grateful for.

“Get the gear, get the kid, let’s go,” Porthos’s terse command was not to be ignored. CB was just finishing his call in the hallway when Athos strode in to pick up the bags. He gave the kid a look and CB nodded, slinging on a black backpack and taking up two more blankets while Athos got the door open. Just outside, a cargo van was waiting.  
Athos scrambled in the open back first, setting the gear bags to the side and then reaching out his hands to get Aramis from under the shoulders. Working with Porthos, they eased the musketeer into the back of the truck. 

“Why does it smell like dinner in here?” Athos asked as he got settled.

“Restaurant laundry van,” Porthos said with a shrug, “better that than diapers.”

CB tossed in his bag and passed the blankets to Athos who spread them over Aramis. They would do their best to make him comfortable, but they all knew this would not be an easy journey for a wounded man, particularly in the back of a van. CB moved to climb in beside Athos but Porthos put a restraining hand on the kid’s shoulder.

“You’re with me,” Porthos said, handing the kid a cap and a uniform jacket, “You know the way.”

“You still don’t trust me,” CB said, shrugging on the jacket.

“Not for a minute,” Porthos said, flashing a pearly smile that was all teeth as he pulled his own cap onto his head. “Let’s go,” he said and gave one final look to Athos. Athos nodded, he had Aramis as settled as he was going to be. With a grim nod, Porthos slammed the doors shut and left Athos and Aramis in the dark in the back of the truck. A lot of trust going around, Athos thought again, but with Porthos, there was no risk. Only Athos’s complete faith that the musketeer would get them safely out of Florence. 

XxxTTMxxX

The first 15 minutes or so of the journey were rough. The twists and turns swayed Athos and Aramis from side to side, the bounce of the tires over cobblestones and rough roads was jarring. In the dark in the back of the cargo van it felt to Athos that they might be in the hold of a ship, swaying on the swells and falls of ocean waves on some journey into the unknown. 

Athos had made Aramis as comfortable as he could, cushioning him with the linens from piles in the van and padding his side with one of the rolled up blankets and two pillows that CB had found in the safe house. Miraculously the musketeer had remained quiet and seemingly asleep. The bumpy ride smoothed out considerably and Athos assumed they were on the A1. They wouldn’t be for long though. Even though it would add time to their journey, he and Porthos had decided it was better to stay off the main highways. Too easy to spot their stolen vehicle from a traffic cam on those roads. No, the risk of the slightly longer ride through the central mountains of Italy was worth it to evade notice. Secrecy was still their best defense against their unknown enemy.

It was as they started the climb into the mountains that Aramis began to stir, noticeably shifting under the blankets and starting to mumble in his sleep. Athos fished in his gear bag and found some glow sticks, cracking three of them to lay around him and Aramis, turning the darkness of the van an eerie but clear blue. It’s cool glow was oddly comforting to Athos, having used the glow sticks often in tents and abandoned houses during his time in the military. It felt to Athos like they were a step out of time, bathed in a protective light that somehow preserved a place of calm and respite from the dangers of the night beyond. Athos knew this was just his imagination generating these feelings, but he had learned to welcome the peace and clarity during his tumultuous days as a soldier. He welcomed it again now and hoped Aramis too would recognize the blue glow as a sign they were safe and secure.

As much as he wanted to let Aramis try to slip back into some kind of rest, Athos needed him to wake. Without the influence of morphine it was the best opportunity they had to question Aramis about what had happened and to assess what he could tell them of his condition before Athos gave him more pain medication. After they got to this surgeon there was no telling how long it would be before the sharpshooter would be lucid again. 

“Aramis,” Athos called to him, putting a hand to his friend’s cheek and tapping lightly, “Aramis, wake up,” he urged. The musketeer groaned, rolling his head as his eyes fluttered beneath their lids, “Come on, Aramis,” Athos said, pulling down the blankets to Aramis’s waist and shifting his hand from Aramis’s cheek to his chest. Athos clenched one hand to rub a knuckle along Aramis’s sternum, “Wake up.”

Aramis fidgeted and rolled his head again but Athos kept up what he knew from his own past experience was an unpleasant pressure on Aramis’s chest, stroking with his knuckle along the bone that ran from the hollow of his throat down the center of his chest. With a small gasp Aramis opened his eyes, blinking owlishly up at Athos as he he panted heavily and tried to get his bearings.

Athos immediately stopped the painful stroking to rub his hand gently over the same place he had caused his friend pain. “Aramis, it’s alright. You’re alright,” he repeated, trying to capture his friend’s gaze as his eyes darted wildly. He could see the panic and confusion on Aramis’s face and he reached his other hand to take his cheek again, forcing him to look toward Athos, “Look at me. Look at me,” Athos commanded, relieved when the dark brown eyes finally settled on him, “You’re safe. You’re alright,” he reassured, sliding his hand over Aramis’s shoulder and giving it a gentle squeeze.

“Athos,” the word was spoken like a sigh.

“Yeah,” Athos smiled and nodded, “Yeah, that’s right.” 

Aramis gave a little hum and a vague sort of nod, and closed his eyes a moment, his breathing steadying. Athos didn’t move his grip on the musketeer as Aramis took a few more breaths before opening his eyes again, this time finding him easily, something more lucid in his gaze than when he’d first woke up.

“Porthos. . .?” Aramis said, his gaze wandering again but not as wildly as before. Athos knew what he was asking.

“Driving the van,” Athos said, “We’re both here. We’re okay.” Aramis hummed and nodded, then his face scrunched as he let out a soft moan.

“Ow,” he winced, looking up accusatorially at Athos as if he was the one who was causing him pain. 

“Yeah, Ow,” Athos couldn’t help but smile, “You did a real job on yourself there.”

“Mmmm…” Aramis answered, breathing through the pain, “What ‘appended?”

“You were stabbed with a k-bar I think, got a knock on the head, some other cuts and contusions,” Athos cataloged the wounds, “Do you remember?”  
Aramis groaned and shook his head, worry playing across his face.

“It’s okay, it’s gonna come back,” Athos reassured, “What’s the last thing you remember?” Aramis looked up at him, eyes narrowing as he tried to remember then widening as a smile tugged at his lips.

“You… the Wren . . . darts. I beat you,” Aramis said.

“You more than beat me, you beat everyone in the bar,” Athos said with a fond smile, “Then what. You had a mission, remember?”

“A mission . . .” Aramis repeated as he closed his eyes and searched for the memory, “SVOI . . . A SVOI mission,” Aramis said, opening his eyes to get confirmation from Athos.

“To Turin, yes. You and Marsac were deployed to . . .” Athos stopped as Aramis was suddenly trying to push himself up, looking frantically around him.

“Marsac!” He breathed in a panic, “Where . . . I was wounded. . . I couldn’t get out . . I . . . Owww, god . . Athos . . .” Aramis had pushed himself up on his elbows and as Athos gripped him by the shoulders the sharpshooter moaned, curling in on himself and rolling toward Athos as the pain became too much.

“Aramis, relax, settle down,” Athos encouraged, trying to get the musketeer to lay back down. “Marsac is not here, he’s not with us. It’s just you. You’re the only one.” Aramis shifted and Athos took more of his weight as the sharpshooter got his left hand onto Athos’s arm, clutching it tightly as he fought against the pain in his body. 

“Boomer and Dutch?” Aramis asked, naming two of the musketeers who had been deployed to Turin, “Maeve was there . . . We were going to have dinner . . .” Aramis trailed off, looking up desperately at Athos. Athos couldn’t bear to say the words, he just shook his head. Aramis took in a deep and painful breath, squeezing his eyes shut as the memories of what happened washed over him. 

“All of them?” Aramis asked softly,although Athos suspected he already knew the answer.

“I”m sorry,” Athos said, shifting his hold on Aramis to support his back and neck, “I’m so sorry,” he said as he felt the tension slipping from his friend’s body. He took the opportunity to gently ease him back into the nest of blankets. 

Aramis let himself be placed down then turned his head away from Athos, tears leaking from beneath his closed eyes. Athos left his friend a moment for his thoughts while he rearranged the blankets and pulled them up over Aramis’s chest. He watched his friend wrestling with his emotions and imagined he was reliving whatever part he played while his friends and comrades were massacred. After a short while, Aramis’s breathing started to slow, a practiced and measured rhythm taking over from the ragged choking breaths he had been struggling with. It was his way, Athos knew, to still his mind. Whether he had learned that method through his training as a marksman or through his spiritual practice of meditation, Athos did not know, but he knew that Aramis was working to find some peace in his own mind. The breathing was a gateway to that, one that Athos often envied him.

“Can you tell me what happened,” Athos said, a comforting hand on the marksman’s shoulder. When he received no answer, Athos tried again, this time speaking as Aramis’s commander in the field, “Aramis, I need your report,” he said formally. Aramis responded to that, nodding and then rolling his head back toward Athos and opening his eyes. It was all Athos could do not to react to the deep pain he saw there, but he needed to know what had happened if he was going to not only keep them all safe, but root out a traitor to the musketeers.

“We were still setting up, hadn’t even gone live on surveillance,” Aramis said, “And they were just there, everywhere. It was an ambush - we were set up. They were in the building. Had to have been there, someone had to tell them we were going to be there. They were ready,’ Aramis said, his words punctuated by heavy breaths and sighs. Athos knew his wounds had to be troubling him, but he just need a little bit more information.

“Who was it? What do you remember?” Athos pressed.

“Masks . . I couldn’t see them,” Aramis said, frustration in his voice, “I hit their leader. A strike to the back . . . He’ll have a wound, deep,” Aramis breathed, “Ravens . . . They were everywhere…” the marksman trailed off, eyes roaming again. 

“Ravens?” Athos was confused and maybe Aramis was too. Your mind played tricks when you were in pain, and the morphine earlier probably didn’t help. When Aramis didn’t respond, Athos tried a line of questioning he was far more interested in.

“What about Marsac?” Athos had to know about the other musketeer. Had he saved Aramis or was he a traitor to them all? “What happened to Marsac?”

“Was by my side at first,” Aramis said, closing his eyes as he searched for details, “then something hit me over the head, I don’t know . . . I don’t remember . . .” Aramis said, trailing off. He shook his head and hummed, then his eyes found Athos’s again, “the server room . . . I woke up there,” Aramis said with certainty, “my wound was bandaged, Marsac . . . Marsac was gone, his badge on the ground next to me. I um . . .I got up, but the door was locked - I heard gunfire...screams . . Ummm.. I picked the lock and . . . Athos, they were killing them, executing them. They had them on their knees . . I…” Aramis’s voice cracked as he fought down his emotions. Athos gripped his shoulder, giving him a reassuring squeeze, grateful, so grateful, to someone that his friend had lived to tell this story. He waited until Aramis could continue.

“There were only two men left in the room, I had no firearm but . . . But there was a knife, Spider’s, on his belt. I took them both out . . . But the second one had a knife too. I didn’t care, I didn’t even notice til later . . . I checked … all of them dead. There were twenty people Athos, twenty . . .” Aramis’s voice trailed off unable to say more.

“I know,” Athos said, and he did, having seen the pictures Treville’s men had taken of what was left of the scene. After the explosions, the fire had not completely washed away what had been done to twenty INTERPOL agents, many of them his friends.

“Do you think it was an inside job?” Athos asked, “Did someone betray the musketeers?”

“I don’t know,” Aramis said, sounding weary, “But how could it not be? They were waiting . . .”

“And Marsac?” Athos said.

“Don’t know,” Aramis said, his breathing growing heavy again, “Where is he?”

“No one knows,” Athos said as he reached into the medic bag, “Apparently after he saved you, he abandoned you. He’s in the wind. Treville’s hunting him.” 

“And me. . .” Aramis asked, “Are they hunting me?”

“No,” Athos reassured him, stroking a hand lightly over his friend’s shoulder, “no, they think you are dead too. You are safe as long as whoever orchestrated this believes that.”

“You found me,” Aramis said, “and Porthos. Someone else could . . .”

“No one else could,” Athos reassured him, “We are the only ones who knew what to look for. You did very well.”

“Mmmm . . ,” was all Aramis could respond. His face looked strained like he was exerting great effort.

“Aramis are you hurting?” Athos asked.

“Excruciating,” he breathed.

“Dammit, you should have said,” Athos admonished, reaching to find the medical bag. 

“Had to tell you. . .,” Aramis said as he let out a sharp exhale, “God, this hurts, hell Athos.”

“Hang on,” Athos said, as he found what he was looking for in the kit. He pulled down the blanket and took Aramis’s right arm out from under the covers. They’d prepared the syringe before they’d gotten in the back of a bouncy cargo van but as Athos tried to figure out how he was going to find a vein he realized this was not going to work. He put the syringe in the bag and instead banged three times on the wall separating the cargo from cab. Porthos would stop as soon as he found a spot.

He took up Aramis’s hand and his friend squeezed it, hard. Hard enough for Athos to wonder if CB had been exaggerating about how weakened the marksman was. No, he had seen all the blood himself, this was more a testament to the pain Aramis was bearing. His side had to be on fire. 

“It’s okay,” Athos reassured him as Aramis let a miserable whimper slip past his lips, “just hold on a little longer.” As he said it, he felt the van slowing. Porthos had found a place to pull over. 

A moment later the doors were opened and Porthos’s bulky figure was silhouetted by sunlight behind him.

“What happened,” Porthos asked, “He okay?”

“Port’os, I’m ‘kay…,” Aramis slurred clutching Athos’s hand. Porthos immediately heaved himself into the van, slipping to Aramis’s other side.

“He’s in pain,” Athos said, passing Aramis’s hand to Porthos. The brawler took it as he gave Aramis a smile, gently stroking his hair away from his face with his other hand. 

“Hold on to him while I get that syringe ready. I couldn’t do it in the back of a moving van.”

“Port’os . . .,” Aramis said between gritted teeth, “I stole your bank card . . .”.

“Yeah, ya did,” Porthos smiled and let out a little chuckle, his large hand now resting on Aramis’s head, “As soon as you’re better, you’re gonna pay for that,” he joked. Athos caught the thin smile that Aramis gave him in return before his face dissolved in agony and he let out a ragged moan.

“Please, …. ow,” the marksman groaned.

“Stop bein’ a big baby,” Porthos chided, but the look he gave Athos suggested that the commander might be the one needing the pain shot if he didn’t hurry up and get on with it. Luckily, all was ready and Athos tapped around quickly to find a vein and then expertly slid the needle into Aramis’s arm, releasing the syringe of fentanyl into his bloodstream. From past experience, they knew it would work quickly.

Athos put the empty syringe back in its place in the kit, then reached to put a reassuring hand on Aramis’s chest while Porthos continued to hold his hand and stroke his hair. They said nothing, but then they didn’t need to. Aramis was their brother and he was hurting and nothing would pull either man from his side until he found some relief. It took only a few minutes and then both men saw it as the furrows of pain smooth from Aramis’s face. Aramis’s hand slackened its grip and Porthos gently laid it by Aramis’s side and pulled the blanket up around him while Athos pulled down the shirtsleeve he had pushed up to give him the shot.

“Where we goin’,” Aramis asked, eyes fluttering against sleep.

“I’m taking you to the beach,” Porthos joked.

“Too cold . . .,” Aramis shook his head.

“Cold?’ Porthos said, raising in inquiring brow to Athos, “Are you cold, buddy? Aramis nodded weakly while Athos reached to feel the man’s check.

“He’s like ice,” Athos said, worry coloring his voice.

“It could be the blood loss or a side effect of the fentanyl,” CB’s voice floated to them from the open doors. He’d been standing there silently, watching the two of them tend to Aramis.

“What can we do?” Athos asked.

“Not much,” CB said, “I think he will feel cold until he gets a transfusion or the fentanyl wears off. Make him as comfortable as you can. We should get moving,” Athos nodded his thanks, appreciating CB’s guidance but also appreciating that he had let the three men have a moment together. For all CB had done for Aramis, Athos felt oddly remiss for having left the young man mostly forgotten outside of the door.

“How much longer do you think?” Athos asked Porthos as he made his way out of the van.

“Kid says we are less than an hour away,” Porthos answered. Athos looked at Aramis, he was starting to visibly shiver.

“Let’s make it a lot less, alright?” Athos said. Porthos gave him a nod and clasped Athos on the shoulder.

“How’s it going up there?” Athos asked as Porthos started to close the doors, “With the kid?”

“Oh it’s peachy,” Porthos said with one of his smiles that was not a smile, “We’re makin’ friends.”

“Porthos,” Athos warned.

“Don’t worry,” Porthos said, “I haven’t thought about kicking him out of the van even once,” and with that he closed the doors, leaving Athos and Aramis in their cocoon of fading blue light. The engine started up with a gentle rumble and then they were on their way again. Athos positioned himself by Aramis’s side again, his back leaning against the partition of the cab. Beside him, the marksman continued to shiver, his teeth beginning to chatter.

“I don’t want to die in the snow,” Aramis begged, struggling to sit up again.

“Easy Aramis, there is no snow,” Athos said.

“Hell is a winter forest … the dead stare back with empty eyes,” the marksman whimpered. 

“Aramis, no,” Athos tried to comfort him, “It’s not snow, we are in the back of a laundry truck. Those are table linens you see.”

“Athos . . . please, it’s so cold,” Aramis looked up at him, tears in his eyes. Athos knew the cold, the visions of the snow, the over-emotionality were all effects of the fentanyl but that did not prevent his heart from hurting at the desperation in his friend’s voice. He needed to do something.

Carefully, he slipped his arms behind Aramis’s shoulders and gave a small tug, pulling the marksman up toward his chest. He slipped a leg to the other side and tugged again until the marksman was propped against him, resting his back against Athos’s chest. Athos reached around them and pulled the pillows around Aramis’s wounded side then pulled the blankets up over them both. As the marksman shivered in his arms, Athos hoped this would work, providing at least enough warmth or physical comfort for the marksman to be comfortable enough to drift back to sleep. Athos sat quietly, loosely holding Aramis against him and thinking again that if he was a praying man, he’d be asking for his friend’s relief.

“Athos,” Aramis broke the brief silence.

“I’m here,” Athos said, giving the marksman a small squeeze.”

“Athos . . . are we cuddling?” Aramis said sleepily.

“Yes, Aramis, we are cuddling,” Athos chuckled. 

“Don’t tell Porthos . . .” Aramis breathed.

“Alright, now go to sleep,” Athos said. The body in his arms gave a mighty sigh and melted heavily into Athos’s hold. While his skin remained cold to the touch, Aramis stopped shivering and secure in the arms of his friend and commander, he slept.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for joining me on this adventure - your kudos and comments are greatly appreciated!


End file.
